After Hours
by Verdreht
Summary: A collection of episode tags (kind of a series) that show what happens after the episode is over. Essentially, pseudo-canon McDanno after hours. Plenty of hurt/comfort, fluff, romance, and all that fun stuff, with each tag building off the other to make a sub-storyline. Steve/Danny, of course. "Of course, Danny thinks. Of course Steve is still working when he swings by his office."
1. Lana I Ka Moana (Adrift)

Of course, Danny thinks. Of course Steve is still working when he swings by his office that evening. It's half past seven; Chin and Kono went home hours ago, and he himself is headed that direction. Yet there Steve sits, hunched over his desk doing that thing with his pen and his teeth and his furrowed brows that Danny's trying really hard not to notice, because he figured out a while ago that some thoughts are appropriate to have about his partner, and some definitely, definitely are not.

He's under no illusion that Steve didn't hear him come in, even though he doesn't look up. He just keeps right on working, typing things into the computer with one hand and thumping his pen – he's taken it away from his mouth, thank God – against the folder in his lap.

Danny takes it as an invitation to come on in. He stops just inside the door, leaning back on the frame and crossing his arms.

"Why am I not surprised?" he says to no one in particular.

Steve looks up, and it's as if he's noticing Danny for the first time. "You're still here?" he says. He sounds and looks genuinely surprised.

So much for thinking Steve heard him. Danny thinks he might have to revisit the whole Super SEAL thing; his partner's slipping.

Although, looking at him, Danny's wondering if maybe there isn't another explanation. He takes in the bloodshot eyes, the almost sallow look in Steve's cheeks, and the all-around haggardness of his normally alert partner, and he sighs.

"What are you doing?" His tone is more resigned than anything, but there's some exasperation, too. Steve is probably one of the smartest people Danny knows – and if anyone tries to quote him on that, especially Steve, Danny will deny it till his dying day – but he's also sometimes one of the dumbest. This, Danny fears, is going to be one of those times.

Steve raises an eyebrow and holds up his folders. His expression says he thinks _Danny_ is the slow one, but Danny knows better. "What does it look like I'm doing?" he says.

Danny decides not to get annoyed at the unspoken 'duh' in Steve's voice. "It looks like you're doing paperwork."

"Wow," Steve replies, "you really are a detective." He's wearing that cheeky little half-smile on his face now that probably would've annoyed Danny a lot more if he wasn't just happy to see some life back on Steve's face.

It does still annoy him a little, though.

Pushing off the wall, he folds his arms across his chest and moves to stand just in front of Steve's desk. "But see, that would be stupid."

"Why, Danny? Why would that be stupid?" His voice is just shy of patronizing, but again, Danny has decided he's not going to get annoyed. He's been annoyed enough for one day, thankyouverymuch; now, he just wants to go home and wash the lingering fish smell off and collapse in bed.

But there's a part of him – an annoying part that isn't quite as small as he wants it to be – that won't let him leave until he knows Steve's off the clock. It's the same part that sees the shadows under Steve's eyes and tells him to take him home. Immediately. Drag his Navy ass out of the building if he has to, because it's clear to anyone with eyes that Steve needs to be sleeping, not sitting at his desk doing paperwork that could just as easily wait until morning.

He doesn't, though. At least, not yet. He'll give Steve a chance to come to his senses before he resorts to that, for both their sakes. Steve's got his pride to consider, and Danny…well, after the day he's had, after everything that happened on the boat – excuse him, the _dingy_ – he's not sure he trusts himself around a tired, defenseless Steve. It's not that he thinks he'll do something he'll regret; more, that he thinks he'll regret something he can't do, and knowing that kills him.

So, instead, he dons his patient parent smile. "Because it's seven-thirty, Steven."

"Actually, it's seven forty-one." He's trying to be a wise ass; Danny can tell. But it comes out flat and worn out, and it's all Danny can do to ignore the creeping feeling in his gut that there's something more wrong here than just a long day's fatigue.

"My point being, normal people don't _work _at seven thirty _or_ seven forty-one. Normal people, like me, have lives outside this place," he gestures vaguely around himself, "and do not hide in their office after hours."

"I'm not hiding," Steve protests, and the look on his face is dangerously close to a pout.

Under normal circumstances, Danny would probably get a kick out of seeing Steve the Super SEAL pouting like a five-year-old, but he just looked so…pitiful. It was hard to be anything more than sympathetic.

"What about Catherine?"

"What about her?" Steve says. It comes out more as a sigh than anything, and the way he drops his pen in favor of pinching the bridge of his nose is decidedly not a good sign.

Danny frowns, but decides not to mention it. "I don't know, babe. It's a Friday night, she's your girlfriend—"

Steve interrupts him with a finger. "_Not_ my girlfriend."

"Right, I forgot. Navy SEALS don't have girlfriends; they have _things_."

Steve looks like he wants to say something, but he doesn't, which is in and of itself worrying. Danny knows he's the talker of the group, but Steve isn't exactly the king of restraint. He's holding back, which either means he's too tired to argue, or he's decided to let Danny have this one.

Danny considers checking the window. If the sky's falling, he wants to have time to call Grace and tell her he loves her.

But no, he's being dramatic. The sky isn't falling – that'll be the day Steve voluntarily shows up to work in a tie and pants that don't have pockets at the knees – and as far as he can tell, Steve's day is just finally catching up to him. It was about time, too; Danny's had lapped him an hour ago.

"Whatever she is," he continues, "shouldn't you be out with her instead of crossing your eyes with this stuff?"

Steve looks up at him, and now that he's closer, Danny can see just how bloodshot his eyes really are. "This stuff?" he says. "This 'stuff' is the paperwork on the murder-turned-boatjacking-turned-murder again." He sits back at that, looking up at Danny like he's grown a second head. "Aren't you the one always getting on my case about doing my paperwork?"

"Yes," Danny admits. "Yes, I am." Steve starts to get that smug, 'well, okay then' look on his face, but Danny cuts in before it can stick. "I do not, however, remember telling you to stay three hours late to do said paperwork. Because that, my friend, would be…." He gestures for Steve to pick up where he left off.

Steve rolls his eyes. "Stupid?"

"Ding, ding, ding. Give the man a prize."

"I'll settle for an Advil," Steve mutters. It's definitely meant to be a smart remark, but Danny gets the feeling there might be a kernel of truth to it.

He pushes off the desk. "That can be arranged," he says, and not-so-subtly, he reaches over and flips the folder closed.

"What the hell?" Steve snaps indignantly, but Danny's already giving his computer monitor the same treatment.

"Office hours are eight to five, babe. Come back later."

"Since when did you set the office hours?"

"Since I don't look like microwaved SPAM."

"Considering your feelings on SPAM, that actually hurts, Danno."

"Well, maybe these will ease the pain." He doesn't ask, much less wait for permission before reaching into Steve's top desk drawer where he knows he keeps the painkillers. Practiced hands find the proper bottle without really looking, and he promptly shakes out a couple pills into his hand. "Here."

Steve stares at him for a second. "Remind me again who the boss is around this place?"

"You are, of course," Danny says. "As long as it's convenient for me."

That gets a bit of a laugh out of Steve, if only a bit, but Danny'll take it, because damned if Steve doesn't look half dead.

"Well, boss, you're not setting a great example," Steve mutters, but he's taking the pills Danny offered him, so Danny doesn't have many complaints.

"SEALs in glass houses shouldn't throw hand grenades."

Steve downs the last of something in his mug that Danny hopes is water and says, "Or words to that effect."

"Or words to that effect," Danny confirms. "Now, up."

"Up?"

"Up. Yes, up. Because I've had a long day, and I'm not rolling your ass out of this building. So," he waves his hands demonstratively, "up."

"You're bossy."

"And you're a pain in my ass. Now that that's out of the way, can we go? Please? Or do I have to make you?"

Steve laughs a little harder, but stops pretty quickly, and if Danny's not mistaken, there's a little bit of a wince on his face before it's replaced with a smirk. "You finally gonna show me the Jersey Slip?"

In that moment, Danny can think of about a hundred things he'd like to show Steve – and yeah, okay, maybe a few of them involve handcuffs – but not only is it not the time nor the place, but he's had a bad enough day as it is without having almost 200 pounds of pissed off Navy SEAL socking it to him. Steve is his partner and his best friend; that's all. And that's enough.

He's hoping, if he tells himself that enough times, he'll eventually start believing it.

Swallowing the lump in his throat that seems to have sprung up, Danny shoots Steve a dry look. "Quick," he says, "call an ambulance. My sides are splitting."

Steve just smiles and shakes his head. He starts to stand, though, which is good.

Right up until Danny sees that wince again. And this time, he knows he saw it. Steve may think he's all mysterious and enigmatic and sex— he's not gonna go there; that way madness lies – _but_ Danny's learned to read him. He recognizes the rigid set of his shoulders through his blue button-up, the way his jaw stands out beneath the shadow of his scruff. He knows that, somehow, someway, Steve's hurting.

"Maybe that ambulance isn't such a bad idea," he says.

Steve looks at him strangely. "You okay, Danno?" He sounds genuinely concerned, and Danny's torn between thinking it's cute that he's worried about him, and thinking his partner is certifiably insane. Which, he guesses, isn't all that new or special, but the contrast is interesting.

He settles somewhere in between. "Come on," he says, "I'll give you a ride home." He's already heading to the door when he says it, because he knows for a fact that Catherine dropped him off here after their lunch at Kamekona's, and his truck wasn't in the parking lot. If Steve wants to go home, which, despite his tough guy act, he clearly does, he's got one option that isn't a taxi, and Danny's it.

"I'm driving," he hears Steve call behind him, and resists the urge to smile to himself. See, it sounds like Steve's being a Type-A controlling bastard, but really, it's his way of saying, 'you win this one, Danno, but I, Commander Steve McGarrett, am too stubborn to admit it.'

When they get out to the car, though, and Danny tosses Steve his keys over the roof, Steve nearly drops them. It's like his shoulder catches when he reaches up, like it doesn't want to go much higher, and that's it. That's all Danny can take.

"Okay, give them back."

Steve looks at him like he's gone crazy. "What?"

"The keys," Danny says. "Give them back. You're not driving."

"Are you mad at me?"

"No. No, I am not, in fact, mad at you. Although the fact that that's where your head went makes me wonder if you've got some sort of guilty con—no, you know what? Never mind. I don't want to know." He walks around the hood of the car and holds out his hand. "The keys."

Steve furrows his brows. "No."

"No?" He leans back, folding his arms across his chest. "Sorry, was that 'no' I can't have my own keys back to my own car?"

"No," Steve retorts, his expression a mix of petulant and indignant that was funny to see on the face of really anyone old enough to have facial hair, "that was a 'no' whatever I just did that made you ask for your keys back was not my fault. And I can't be punished for it," he adds matter-of-factly.

Danny resists the urge to throw his arms up in the air, and settles for an eye roll instead. "Again with the guilty conscience. Seriously, Sasquatch, just hand over the keys. You're not driving."

"Yes I am."

"No, you're really, really not."

Steve's eyes are wide and his nostrils flare, and he's looking at Danny like _he's_ the one being unreasonable. "Why not?"

"Because your rope burn's showing."

Steve opens his mouth, presumably to sputter out another retort, but then he seems to realize what Danny just said, because he's going to fix his shirt.

"You do realize that I've already seen it, right?" he says. "So trying to cover it up like a hickey in high school's kind of moot." And a little bit insulting, but Danny tries not to take it personally. Steve has a tendency to shrug off injuries; Danny blames it on the Navy. And that's if a family life that would make Dr. Phil run screaming hills wasn't enough to do it. That's not something he can fix, though, at least not right now. They're getting better – _Steve's_ getting better, at least with him, but he knows that sort of thing doesn't happen overnight.

No, an ocean full of emotional trauma is a little ambitious for one night, so he focuses on something a little more manageable. "Come here," he says, reaching for Steve's shirt.

He's not altogether surprised when Steve pulls back.

"It's fine, Danny." Steve's voice is clipped. Danny knows the tone is telling him to back off, but Steve doesn't scare him. At least, not on purpose.

"Let me be the judge of that," he says. This time, when he reaches for Steve's shirt, his partner has nowhere to go, and he manages to get hold of the lapels. He's careful; he's had a few rope burns in his time, not the least of which was that time Steve fell over the cliff, and he wouldn't wish them on his enemy.

Well, no, that isn't exactly true. But he certainly wouldn't wish it on Steve.

"Danno…."

"Don't 'Danno' me," he scolds, but it's halfhearted at best. He's unbuttoning Steve's shirt, and this isn't at all how he'd imagined it, but his heart is still pounding in his chest and he's willing his fingers not to shake. The thought that, underneath that shirt, Steve's hiding injuries should be enough to sober him, but, well, it's not. Steve always has some sort of wound hidden just beneath the surface – physical, or otherwise – but it's part of him, and Danny's finding he likes Steve just the way he is.

Even if he annoys the seven bells out of him sometimes.

This, for instance, is one of those times. "Jesus Christ," he breathes when he gets Steve's shirt unbuttoned. It occurs to him that they're in the parking lot of Headquarters, and he should probably be a little more sensitive about that, but for one, there's no one there and the part of the lot they're in is pretty secluded; and for two, Danny's too busy wincing for his partner's sake to give a rat's ass.

There's a welt on Steve's left shoulder, and from what Danny can see reflected in the window behind Steve, it comes up from about his spine at an angle, gets deeper up around the top of his shoulder and his collarbone, and tapers off less than an inch above his right nipple.

It's not hard to figure out where it came from.

"It's just a little rope burn," Steve says. If anything, he sounds exasperated, and maybe a little bit tired.

No, scratch that. He sounds a lot bit tired, and from the way he's leaning back against the Camaro, he feels every bit as tired as he sounds. He sure as hell looks it.

Somehow, that doesn't do anything to sooth Danny's ruffled feathers. "A little rope burn?" he says. "Babe, have you looked in a mirror recently?" And in case he hasn't, he grabs Steve by the upper arms and turns him around.

He isn't expecting _that_ to hurt him, but he catches his wince in the reflection.

It's all he can do not to beat his head against the roof. As it is, he's still holding Steve's arms – albeit a little softer – when he leans his head forward and tries to take a few deep, soothing breaths. It's a little bit Lamaze for his tastes, but he figures if it can get a woman through childbirth, it might be able to get him through an afternoon with his impossible partner. _Might_.

"Pray tell," he begins when he's pretty sure he can do so without yelling, "is there a part of you that _doesn't_ hurt?"

Steve gives a one-sided shrug that he feels more than sees.

Danny straightens. "Was that a yes, or a no? Because I'm gonna need a definitive answer, here, otherwise I'm going with my gut and taking you to the nearest hospital." He's threatened to do it a few times, but he's never actually made good at it.

"Danny?" Steve's reversed the roles; he's turned around, and how he's holding onto one of Danny's arms with one of his own, and he's looking at him like he's in hysterics or something. "It's _a rope burn_. No one in this world has ever died from a rope burn."

"I bet you'd be surprised."

"I bet I really wouldn't," Steve says. His voice is measured, and Danny's having a hard time figuring out if it's his 'explaining to a kid' voice, or his 'calming a worried relative voice' because they sound a lot alike, and he's really better with Steve's faces than his tones. "I'm just a little sore, Danno."

The reasonable voice in Danny's head points out that, yes, that probably happens when someone swims a mile hauling a person and a boat – sorry, _dingy_, again – and then has to turn around and out-swim a shark. But he's still not quite ready to let this go, even as Steve's shrugging his shirt back on. He doesn't bother buttoning it, but Danny wonders if that's more because he can't be assed, or if it's because it hurts when it brushes the burn. He thinks about telling him to just leave it off, but he realizes that's probably not wise for either of them.

"At least tell me you'll get it patched up," he says. "None of this 'rub some dirt on it, leave it to air out' shit, because I don't trust that water. Knowing your luck, you'd probably catch scurvy or something."

Steve actually laughs at him for that, which he guesses is kind of deserved. He knows you can't catch scurvy from the water, but it's the first ocean-y disease that came to his head. Besides, he finds he doesn't really mind that laugh. It's quiet, barely shakes his shoulders, even, but he grins that cheek-dimpling grin and shakes his head, and Danny can breathe a little bit easier. He's a little sore, a little scuffed up, but he's okay, and that takes a weight off Danny's shoulders.

Still, "Maybe you should have some sort of supervision tonight," he says. "Make sure you don't die of infection in the night or something." He doesn't have Grace that night, and he wants to offer, but at the last second, he thinks better of it. "Maybe you should call Catherine." He wonders, as soon as he says it, if it's physically possible for him to actually kick himself.

He's almost relieved when Steve shakes his head. "She can't come."

Danny raises an eyebrow. "You got some sort of telepathy thing going that I don't know about? 'Cause that…that was pretty—"

"She's busy."

"She's your girlfriend, babe. Clearly no one's ever explained this to you, so I'm gonna try and make it very simple for you." He holds his hands out, ready to gesticulate appropriately. "When you love somebody, and they're hurt, you want to help." He speaks slowly, as Steve had earlier, though his is definitely the voice meant for a child. "But you cannot help, unless you know that person is hurt."

"Danno."

Danny ignored him. "Do you—do you see where I'm going with this, Steve? Because I can explain it slower if—"

"Danny!"

"What?"

"She's _busy_," Steve repeats, and this time, Danny gets it. It's the same kind of 'busy' Steve is when he can't tell him where he is or what he's doing or when he's coming back, and he recognizes the pain in Steve's eyes as he averts them and mutters something under his breath.

"I'm sorry, what was that? We can't all have superhuman hearing, so you're gonna need to speak up." He's aware he's being harsh, but something about seeing that look in Steve's eyes – the same one he's seen in the mirror a few times too many – over _Catherine_ hurts.

Steve takes in a deep breath and lets it out in a sigh before he raises his eyes. "I said, she's not my girlfriend." But then he seems to lose some of his gusto, because the rest is quieter. "And she doesn't."

"Doesn't what?" He and Steve need to have a conversation about clarity later, because this is taking entirely too long.

"Doesn't love me. Catherine…she doesn't love me. Not like that, anyway."

That…Danny isn't expecting. It seems more than one wound is getting exposed tonight; this one, though, seems a hell of a lot deeper than a rope burn.

For the second time that night, Danny's swallowing a lump in his throat. He knows he's gonna regret this, but he asks, "What about you?"

Steve chuckles. "I don't love me, either."

Danny thinks he's joking, but maybe he isn't, and that's not okay. But that's a can of worms for another time, when Steve's not in pain and Danny's not so raw and worn out.

"What I meant was, do you love her?"

"Yes."

Danny probably doesn't wince, he thinks, but it's a close call.

Steve, though, doesn't seem to notice, because he keeps on, "But I love her the same way she loves me. We're friends; we have a thing. That's what I keep trying to tell you. It's not—it's not like that."

"Then what's it like?"

"Are we really having this conversation right now?" Steve says incredulously.

"No, no, we are not having _any_ sort of conversation right now. It's only a conversation when _both_ sides contribute something."

"Well, what do you want me to say, Danny?" Steve's close to shouting, and Danny can only think that, wow, this escalated quickly.

And yet, his voice is right on par with Steve's. "I just want to know what the hell's going on with you. You keep doing one thing, and then saying something completely different."

"How?" Steve snaps, and he's definitely got his aneurism face on, now. "How is it any different?"

"Oh, I don't know, Steve. Do you go around screwing all of your friends?"

"Clearly, I don't."

Danny's next retort dies on his lips. The implications of Steve's words are clear enough: you're my friend, and I'm not screwing you. And there's a look in his eyes as he says it that Danny can't quite place, but he knows it's nothing good.

Steve seems to realize it, too, because his puffed up chest recedes a little bit, and he rubs away the aneurism face with a hand, replacing it with something much more tired and resigned.

"I'll call a cab," he says, dropping Danny's long-forgotten keys into his hand before he slips past Danny and starts walking.

It takes a few seconds for Danny's brain to catch up. His chest is aching, and there's a lump in his throat the size of Staten Island, but he's watching Steve walk away, and no matter what was said, that's the one thing he doesn't think he can stand to see.

"What are you doing?" he says for the second time that night. His voice isn't as steady as he would like it to be, but it does the trick.

Steve stops, turning around and putting a hand on his hip. "I told you what I was doing."

"Yeah, and I said I'd give you a ride home." He nods towards his car. "So get in."

For a second, Steve looks like he's going to refuse.

"Please, Steve. Please, get in the car."

He's not sure if it's the sound of his voice that did it or the fact that he said 'please', but after a moment, Steve finally gives up. His shoulders slump, and he starts back towards the car.

The car ride is silent, which is a new and altogether unwelcome thing. When he pulls up at the McGarrett house, Steve can't seem to get out of the car fast enough.

Steve doesn't look back at him once as he walks to his door, doesn't even raise a casual shaka over his shoulder.

Steve doesn't see Danny bury his head in his hands and wish like hell they were still on that boat, trying to catch his first tuny fish.


	2. Mohai (Offering)

The Notebook isn't as bad as Steve remembers it the second time around. That's not really a reflection on the movie, though, he thinks; it didn't magically stop sucking since the last time it was inflicted on him. Steve knows that if he was really paying attention, he would probably be just as ready stab his eyes out with his pocketknife as he was the first time.

But he isn't. Paying attention, that is. He hasn't been the whole time, and that's definitely a mixed blessing, because while it's probably good he's no longer considering blinding himself as a viable escape option, there are other ideas running through his head right now that are arguably crazier.

He'd like to say he'd known he was screwed the moment Danny sat down – or the moment he decided, what the hell? and put his arm around him – but the fact of the matter was, it was way before that. He's starting to think he's been screwed since the moment he first laid eyes on the Jersey detective.

If he wasn't screwed before, though, he definitely is now. After the argument they'd had, the last thing he expected was to see him knocking on his doorstep, not once, but _twice_, and this time, with Grace in tow. And even though he knows it's not going to end the way he wants it to, for exactly 123 minutes – plus or minus a few for previews and remote shuffling – he gets to pretend.

It isn't enough. It could never be enough, and he knows that when everyone starts to get up, and he feels that familiar ache in his chest as Danny pulls away to stand. He's felt it before: hugs that didn't last long enough, bright smiles aimed his direction for every reason but the one he wanted. He knew as soon as Danny drew that heart in the air that, if he'd had both arms to do it, he'd have done it back.

What scares him, though, is that he would've meant it.

He's not an idiot. For all Danny accuses him of being one, when he's mad because…well, Steve's lost count of all the reasons Danny reads him the riot act – and don't let that detract from what he's saying, because he really, _really_ isn't an idiot.

Except for when he is. Because the night before last, he really, really _was_ an idiot. He hadn't meant to let slip what he had, but Danny had been yelling at him for something that wasn't as easy to shrug off as his crazy driving or his supposed suicidal tendencies, and he'd cracked under pressure.

_Do you go around screwing all your friends?_

Christ, but how was he supposed to answer that? 'Not as many as you'd think, but I'd be happy to put you on the short list.' That'd go over about as well as a bag of malasadas at a dieter's club.

It's just a bad idea, for so many, many reasons. For one, has a feeling Danny would object violently to be placed on anything with 'short' in the name; and for two, arguably more importantly, the sad truth is that the list he wants to put Danny on? It starts and ends with him.

So maybe he is an idiot, sometimes, because yeah, he's got it bad for his partner. As in, 'take a knee and hold out something shiny' bad. Which, all things considered – up to and including the fact that Danny is so straight he can't even draw a crooked line – is pretty much the definition of 'idiot.'

He knows this. He knows this too well, and so he sticks to friend, sticks to partner and drinking buddy and lady-troubles-commiserate, or whatever combination Danny needs, because he's almost convinced himself that's enough. Catherine helps, and he knows he should feel guilty about that, but it's not like she doesn't use him the same way. It's a fucked up system; he knows this. But it's the only one he's got, and it's working for him okay. He can fool himself most of the time into thinking he's got it covered.

Then nights like this happen, and his cover's blown to hell. Worse, he can't even manage to care, because damned if it didn't feel good to have his arm around Danny's shoulders, to feel his solid weight leaning against him and his warmth seeping into his chest. Damned if it, damned if every hug and touch and smile, don't make him want to risk it, just to _see_.

But Danny's already up, a half-asleep Grace leaning against his side and a pair of antenna hanging out of the belt loop of his pants.

"We're gonna head," he says. "I think it's past Gracie's bedtime."

It doesn't matter how disappointed he is. When Grace looks at him with her tired little eyes, he climbs to his feet. His legs are asleep and his left arm's tingly and stiff, but he still manages walk them to the door.

They stop there, and Danny turns around and gives Grace a nudge. "What do you say?"

Even dozing on her feet, Grace musters up a heart-melting smile that flashes the gap of her latest lost baby tooth. "Thank you, Uncle Steve," she says.

Steve squats down to her level and returns her smile with one of his own. "Anytime." And he means that. Really, he does, because he loves that little girl.

He thinks she likes him, too, if only because he takes every possible opportunity to spoil her rotten. She's still smiling at him, even though her eyes are starting to slide closed. "We should watch it again."

Steve looks up at Danny at that, and is amused to see the vaguely chagrined look on his face. "We won't hold that against her," he whispers conspiratorially.

Steve's not sure he could, even if he wanted to.

"Alright, well, we gotta get out of here," Danny says, and Steve pushes himself to his feet. "Before this monkey turns into a pumpkin."

"Hey," Grace protests, "I'm not a pumpkin."

The monkey, Steve notices, she doesn't contest. He guesses it's kinda like how Danny doesn't correct her when she calls him 'Danno.' Which makes his smile widen a little bit, because Danny's stop correcting him as much, too, and that puts him in a very selective group.

Reaching past, Danny, Steve pulls the door open. It's not that he's in a hurry for them to go – he actually considers, briefly, offering them the guest room so that Danny doesn't have to drag his worn-out daughter halfway across town, but he kind of thinks that would be a bad idea – but he's taken to proving he's not quite the Neanderthal Danny accuses him of being. Besides, Danny's got his hands full with Grace and a pair of impressive bumblebee wings, and Steve's in a good mood.

He thinks that's that when Danny steers Grace out the door, but just as he's about to start closing it, Danny turns. Naturally, he stops closing the door.

And if he does it so fast the door hinges creak, then that's just his usual reflexes.

"What's up?" he says, and he hopes it doesn't sound as quick as it feels.

If Danny notices, he doesn't mention. He just looks at him with those earnest blue eyes that Steve just really can't handle, and says simply, "Thanks." That's all, and Steve would normally be worried – a quiet Danny is usually a scary one, Dracula cape notwithstanding – but there's just this…_Look_, and Steve feels his chest swell a little bit.

He knows he's smiling like an idiot when he closes the door, but like he said, he's come to terms with being an idiot in most areas of or relating to a one Danny Williams, and right now, he's feeling too good to care.

At least, he is until Catherine starts to pass him for the door.

He raises an eyebrow. "You going, too?"

"I think so," she says.

Steve has to admit; he's a little bit surprised. "Nothing like _The Notebook_ to clear the room, huh?"

But Catherine gives him a stern look, and the smile dies on his face. "Steve," she says, and he gets that there's supposed to be meaning in it, but for the life of him, he can't figure out what it is. Either it shows on his face, or Catherine is every bit as perceptive as he knows she is, because she folds her arms across her chest and raises her eyebrows in a way that says, 'I know that you know what I'm talking about, and I could stand here and wait until you figure it out, but I'm going to take pity on you and tell you, because you, Steve, are hopeless.'

What? She has very expressive eyebrows.

"Steve, you know I love you, right?"

Steve wants to reply, but there's a 'but' in there that she hasn't said yet, and he kind of wants to wait until he has all the details before he agrees or disagrees with anything.

Sure enough, Catherine keeps going, "But—" he called that one, but he's smart and/or cautious enough not to look smug, "this thing that we have between us…" She sighs. "I think it might be time to move on."

Steve blinks. "Run that by me again?"

"I said—"

But Steve waves her off. "No, I know what you said. I just…" He frowns, his jaw working as he tries to figure out just what he's trying to ask.

When he starts to say something, though, Catherine stops him with a hand on his chest. "No, Steve, just listen. I love you, and you love me, and what we have…_had_, it was great. We had a lot of good times together." Steve opens his mouth to protest – it wasn't _just_ about good times – but he can't even get a word out. "But we're not _in_ love, and I think it's time we stop pretending. I think it's time _you_ stop pretending."

"Pretending? I'm not—"

Catherine gives him a pointed look.

Steve wisely closes his mouth.

To his relief, the sharp look slips from Catherine's face. But then something decidedly sympathetic takes its place, and Steve's pretty sure he liked the first one better.

"How long?"

"How long, what?"

Catherine manages not to roll her eyes, but Steve thinks it takes some effort. "How long have you been in love with Danny?"

Steve's stomach drops like an anchor. "What?" And he's glad he's not drinking anything, because he gets the feeling spraying a mouthful of Longboard on her isn't gonna soften Catherine's position any.

His dry sputtering certainly doesn't. "Come on," she says, "how long have we known each other?"

Steve gets the impression that question is rhetorical.

"The point is, it's obvious to anyone that has eyes, much less someone that's known you as long as I have, that you care for Danny as more than just a partner."

Steve clears his throat, scratching his nose awkwardly. "Hope it's not _that_ obvious," he mutters. The look that Catherine gives him doesn't inspire much confidence. "It's not like—I mean, I'm not—" Steve's tripping over his own tongue, and he can feel his face heating up.

And Catherine's just watching it all with a knowing look and a hint of a smile.

He gives up. "I have no idea," he sighs.

Catherine nods. "But you _do_ like him." It's not a question, so Steve doesn't answer. "So, what're you going to do about it?"

"Isn't this…kind of weird?" he asks. The woman he's been going out with on and off the past few months is giving him relationship advice, and his brain is so fried that it's having a hard time wrapping itself around that.

But Catherine waves him off. "_Friends_ with benefits," she explains. "Even though I think we can both agree the benefits, as great as they were, are off, we're still friends. That means _this,_" she gestures between them, and he assumes she's referring to the conversation, "is completely normal."

He's not sure he buys that, but he's gonna go with it for now.

"So, what are you gonna do about it?"

He raises an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

Catherine fixes him with a look that doesn't speak highly of his intelligence, leaning back against the wall. "Are you sure you're an intelligence officer?"

"That, I can neither confirm—"

"Nor deny," Catherine finishes for him, and this time, she does roll her eyes. "You know you can't just sit and ogle him for the rest of your life."

Steve snorts. "I don't _ogle_ him." Though at Catherine's dubious look, he makes an amendment. "_Much_."

Catherine still doesn't look like she believes him, but she doesn't push it anymore. She opens the door, and he thinks, for a fleeting second, that maybe he's safe.

But then, just like Danny, she stops in the doorway. "I'm just saying," she says, "it couldn't hurt to try."

"Yes it could," Steve retorts immediately. "He carries a firearm, and I know for a fact he's got a mean right hook. It could hurt a lot."

"Yeah, but both know getting shot has never been much of a deterrent for you."

That's not true, he thinks, and he wonders where people keep getting that idea.

It's an issue for another time.

He sighs, crossing his arms and trying not to wince as he feels the gesture tug at the still-healing rope burn on his shoulder. He studies the carpet beneath his flip-flops. "Yeah, well maybe this time, it is."

"You're afraid to get shot _down_, Steve," Catherine says, and with that, she trots off his front porch and leaves the door to swing closed behind her.

Steve raises his head to watch her go.

"That," he sighs, "I can neither confirm nor deny."


	3. I Ka Wa Mamua (In A Time Past)

Danny's had a lot of long days in his time, so he thinks he's qualified to testify as an expert when he says that this…this had been one long ass day.

He tries not to let himself think about it too much, really. He tries to focus on other things: Grace's smile when he'd picked her up for the dance; looking around the gym and knowing that he, Danny Williams, has the most amazing, beautiful daughter that any father could ever hope to have; the knowledge that, in the next room, his pride and joy is sleeping, safe and sound and happy because her Danno made good on his 100% guarantee.

The beer is helping. The punch at the father and daughter dance had been depressingly – but understandably – alcohol free, but he realizes when he gets home and his hands are shaking too badly to get the buttons of his shirt undone, that he's going to need some help if he wants to get to sleep tonight.

And he is definitely needs to sleep tonight.

He's on his second beer, now, watching reruns of the Twilight Zone, because it's one in the morning, and there's really not much else on. _The Hurt Locker_ was playing on one of the few movie channels he gets, like some sort of bad cosmic joke, and he's definitely going to remember to cancel that channel when he gets around to it, because seriously? What the hell?

So now it's all black and white weirdness, which he thinks will be fun a couple more beers in. He's resolved not to get too drunk, because he doesn't want to be hungover tomorrow – today, he corrects himself. He gets too few days with his daughter to waste them on headaches, traumatic day notwithstanding. Besides, he figures he can always get drunk _after_ he drops her off.

He usually does anyway.

Of course it's raining outside, he thinks. The rattle of thunder sounds just a little too much in his head like explosions, so he turns up the TV a little more. He doesn't think it'll be enough to wake Grace, but just in case, he mashes his thumb into the minus button once.

He's just too raw, and he hates it. Every clap of thunder makes him jump; every flash of lightning makes him wince. He's no stranger to nearly dying; it's kind of part of the job description, especially working with Steve.

Steve.

He's part of the problem, Danny thinks. He'd stayed. Every time Danny had told him to go, he'd stuck around like a bad penny or a stray dog. He's too damn loyal; Danny blames the SEALs. Any normal man would've gone running screaming in the opposite direction as soon as he saw the vest worth of C4, but not Steve. No, he'd stayed there and, what, demanded story time?

Part of Danny wanted to be mad at him for it. He'd risked his life. He'd done something incredibly stupid that he hadn't needed to do. Who was supposed to look after Grace if he had actually—he shakes his head. He doesn't want to go there. But still, he'd given the man an out, and he'd looked at Danny like _he_ was the crazy one.

_Forget about it_, he'd said, and maybe it's just the hysteria talking, but he could swear he said it in a Brooklyn accent.

And when it was all said and done…well, he won't say that the hug made it all worth it, because as much as he loves Steve, it really, really didn't. But it made it took some of the edge off. There was just something about Steve, this sort of strength and solidarity that was more than just physical – because the 200-pounds-of-muscle Navy SEAL is batting above-average in both categories body-wise – that grounded him, and damned if it wasn't the best hug Danny'd ever had.

Again, maybe it's just the hysteria talking.

But then, maybe it's not. Steve's getting more touchy lately, he's noticed, and he can't bring himself to mind. Granted, that stunt a couple days ago after Halloween had nearly made him choke on popcorn – which, all things considered, is a little less glamorous than death-by-suicide-bomber – but he can honestly say he didn't mind spending the evening that way.

Even if the movie was terrible.

What's really sticking with him, though, aside from the dangerously-high blood pressure and shakes, is the look on Steve's face. He can still see it when he closes his eyes. He can see Steve burying his head in his hands for a second, and he knows he wasn't crying, but now that he thinks about it, he looked pretty close. He can see how pale he was, how wide his eyes were, how he paced back and forth for a good few seconds once the bomb was clear, like he couldn't make himself stand still.

He can still feel how tight Steve held onto him and hear the laugh that sounded suspiciously like a sob – and damn it, he gets a lump in his throat thinking about it – and it was both the easiest and the hardest thing to do for him to break away and leave that square.

He looks down at his phone. It's been sitting on his leg for the past half hour at least, and he knows if he pressed the power button, the screen would come onto Steve's contact page. The number of times he's picked up the phone and nearly pressed that daunting green phone icon is bordering on pathetic, but every time he's about to, he thinks of a reason not to. Maybe Steve's sleeping. That is, after all, what normal people do at one in the morning.

Not that Steve has ever been the poster child for normal.

And then there's…there's…well, he's sure there's more, he just can't think of them right now. Can't think period, really.

He realizes, then, that the phone's in his hand again, and his thumb's poised over the button. Christ, but he wants to call. He tells himself he just needs someone to talk to, and that's partly true. But he knows that's not all. He doesn't just need someone to talk to; he needs Steve, and that scares the hell out of him. He wants what he knows he can't have.

And that thought definitely deserves another beer.

He's getting up to get it, his pajama bottoms catching under his bare feet as he pads to the fridge, but there's a knock on the door. He thinks it's thunder for a second, but it sounds again, and this time, he knows it's not thunder.

After all, thunder generally doesn't call his name.

It's not loud or anything; he barely hears it over the television, but it's there. _Danny_. He knows the voice immediately, and even though he's having trouble believing what he's hearing, he's practically tripping over himself to get to the door. He doesn't understand what Steve would be doing there at this time of morning, but sure enough, when he opens the door—

Steve's right there. Literally on his doorstep, a six-pack of Longboards by his feet and a lost look in his eyes. And that's really the only way Danny can describe it: lost, and it looks so out-of-place on Steve's face that he would laugh if it wasn't for the lump in his throat and the pain in his chest.

He looks almost like he did back in North Korea, Danny thinks: that look like he can't believe what he's seeing, and is somehow happy and terrified by it all at the same time. His eyes are impossibly wide, almost like they were at after the bomb, and they're bloodshot, red-rimmed, and shining. His face might even be paler than it was before, and he's staring at Danny like…Christ, but Danny doesn't even know.

And frankly, he doesn't really care, because the next second, there's hands on either side of his face and lips on his, and all potential for coherent thought is gone.

It's not pretty, by any stretch. It's rough and desperate, and Danny's not sure if it's rain or if there's something else wetting Steve's cheeks, but he doesn't care. He needs this, needs to feel something other than fear and regret, and he gets the feeling that maybe Steve needs it, too.

When they part, it's only because air's a necessary evil. And even then, they don't _really _part. They aren't kissing, no, but Steve's got his arms around him, holding him like he's the last life raft on the Titanic, so Danny really can't complain.

It's not until he feels him shaking that his brain really starts to catch up, and he feels a lump rise in his throat. Steve's soaking wet – Danny wonders how long he was standing out there before he knocked – but when Danny starts to open his mouth to tell him he's got some spare clothes Steve left the last time he bunked over, he thinks better of it and stops.

Steve's not the only one shaking, and Danny doesn't think it has anything to do with the rain. The way Steve's holding onto him, the way he's holding right back, the heavy breaths he hears in his ear…talking isn't the point right now. He's alive, and Steve's alive, and right now, they both need a little assurance of that, and Danny doesn't have it in him to cut this short.

In fact, it's Steve that eventually pulls away, and even then, there's hardly a foot between them. Steve's staring at him, and Danny knows the moisture on his face isn't just rain, because his eyes are red and watery, and Danny knows that his are, too. They both stared down a bomb today; they both could've died.

But they didn't, and that's really what matters in the end, isn't it?

Danny's not sure what to do right now. He knows what he wants to do. He wants to pull Steve the rest of the way inside, wants to get him into some dry clothes – himself, too, because he realizes his shirt is damp, and even though he doesn't mind too much, he'd prefer to be dry – and figure out some way to get that haunted look out of his eyes. Danny knows he's not the first friend Steve's seen in a life-or-death situation, and he knows some of them didn't make it. He knows that as messed up as he is right now, he'd probably be a lot worse if the roles were reversed.

He has no idea, though, where the kiss falls in all of this, and that's what he's bumping on.

"So," he says softly. He's not really sure where to go from there, though, so he just lets it hang.

Luckily, Steve seems to snap out of it a little bit, and after a second, he squats down and grabs the six pack. When he stands, he holds it out to Danny – and Danny really hopes the soggy cardboard handle will hold, because wouldn't that be a waste? – like an offering of sorts, and Danny's not sure if the hopeful/sheepish/goofy grin on his face is more funny or heartbreaking.

"How about that beer?" he says finally. His voice is shaky at best, but it's definitely an improvement to the muted sobs he heard a few seconds before, so he'll take it.

So, Danny smiles back, and he hopes it looks as happy as he is even though he's pretty sure he's still got the waterworks going. "Come on in," he says, stepping aside so Steve can do just that. He trusts the other man to close the door behind him, so he pads on into his room to get Steve's clothes and change shirts.

He's coming out of his room, Steve's clothes in hand, when he hears it. At least, he thinks he hears it, because it all comes out in sort of a rush, and frankly, it's too quiet to really be sure.

He turns. "What?"

"I said," Steve repeats, a little louder this time, and there's this fierce determination in his eyes, "I love you, Danno."

See, that's what he thought he said, but he wasn't sure, because he's pretty sure his brain just abandoned ship. And damn, he's lived in Hawaii too long; all his metaphors are starting to be water-based.

"Danno?"

Steve's talking to him, he realizes, which doesn't do a lot to get his brain back on board with the rest of him, but it does add a sense of urgency. His brows are furrowed and he looks kind of nervous, which just doesn't seem to fit with Danny's image of the SEAL, but then, neither does the whole 'drowned puppy' thing.

Today's just been full of surprises.

"Not for nothing, Danny, but this is usually the part where you say something." He doesn't make any suggestions as to what that might be, though, so his commentary really isn't helpful.

Danny tosses him his clothes, and Steve snatches them out of the air. He looks down at them, and the confusion on his face is almost funny as he looks back up to Danny.

"You're dripping on my floor," he says by way of explanation, and Steve looks down. Sure enough, there's a puddle by his boots, and he actually has the good grace to look sheepish. Underneath the disappointment, that is.

But Steve doesn't say anything, he just kind of nods. Stopping by the kitchen to sit the beers down, he starts for the bathroom in the hall behind Danny. He notices Steve doesn't look him in the eye as he passes him, and that, more than anything, makes up his mind.

Steve's at the bathroom door, and Danny figures it's now or never. He swallows the lump in his throat. "Hey," he says.

Steve turns around.

With a smile, Danny points to his chest, draws a heart in the air, points to Steve, and holds up two fingers, all the while mouthing the words accordingly.

For a second, Steve just looks more confused. But then, like a light bulb, it seems to click, and his whole face – hell, his whole _being_ – seems to brighten. He grins a grin that shows off his dimples and crinkles the corners of his eyes, and he starts to walk towards Danny with a gleam in his eyes.

Danny stops him just before he can get an arm around him. "Not until you're dry, you Neanderthal," he chides, but it's fond enough that Steve doesn't seem to mind.

He just smiles a little wider. "Okay."

Danny notices he's walking a fair bit quicker this trip to the bathroom. As he disappears, Danny busies himself with grabbing a towel from the closet and dragging it across the floor with his foot as he carries the beers over to the refrigerator. Steve may not care what temperature his beer's at, but some people are civilized, and cold beer is good beer.

He makes a conscious effort not to pay attention to the wet slap of soggy clothes as they hit the linoleum of the bathtub, just like he makes an effort not to hear how loud his heart is beating.

He doesn't, however, try all that hard to keep the smile off his face when Steve comes padding back out. He's wearing some sweatpants and a t-shirt that he left behind a couple weeks ago, and even though his hair's still a little wet, he looks all around better, drier, and more at ease than he had when he'd first shown up.

Danny's waiting on the couch, and he doesn't have to look to know that Steve's getting a beer out of the fridge before he joins Danny on the couch. He flops down, and what few inches of couch there is between them are quickly covered as he slings his arm around Danny's shoulder and pulls him flush against his chest.

"This isn't just some post-traumatic life affirmation thing, is it?" he asks suddenly, because it would be way too easy to get comfortable with all of this, but he can't until he knows. He can't risk it. It's been the worst day and the best day of his life, and he'd kind of like to know which one of those this part's gonna tally up to.

But Steve cocks his head and looks at him, his brows furrowed like he can't decide if Danny's not making any sense, or if he is, and he just thinks he's an idiot.

Danny just waits.

"Oh." It seems to dawn on him. "You're really—you're really asking me." He actually sounds surprised. It's like it hasn't even occurred to him that that's even possible.

That makes Danny feel a lot better than it should. "Never mind," he says, and he's about to turn and start watching the _Twilight_ _Zone_ again – which, compared to the last ten minutes, doesn't seem quite as weird as it did earlier – but Steve takes his arm out from around him and props both his elbows on the arm of the couch, presumably to get a better angle on Danny with those stern eyes of his.

"No, Danny, this is not a," he pauses, "'post-traumatic life affirmation thing.' Did I get that right?"

Danny nods and nearly winces, because he feels kind of stupid all of the sudden. At the same time, though, there's no denying the surge of relief.

"Well then," Danny manages, "you, my friend, have the _worst_ timing. Which is saying a lot, for this island."

Steve just shrugs, and he seems to think the issue is resolved, because he puts his arm back around Danny's shoulders and pulls him close again. "I thought it was kind of romantic."

Danny can't help chuckling at that, because of course, the Super SEAL would think a love confession after nearly getting blown up less than twelve hours earlier is _romantic_. "Yeah, well, next time, how about just asking me to dinner?"

"Next time, huh?"

Danny can feel as much as hear the words, and he can't help remembering the last time Steve said them. Then, he'd said he hoped there wasn't a next time and practically ran off to go see his daughter.

Now, though, he just leaned back, letting his head rest in the crook of Steve's shoulder, and smiled to himself. "Yeah," he says, "next time."

* * *

They drag themselves to bed sometime around three in the morning, and Danny's all too happy to let Steve slide in under the covers, too. He'd have never pegged him for a cuddler, but he sure as hell doesn't complain when Steve throws an arm around his waist and leans his head against the back of Danny's. The strangeness of the feeling of his breath blowing against the back of Danny's neck is quickly lost in the comfort of having him so close, and they've barely been in bed ten minutes before they're both sleeping soundly.

A few hours later, when they force themselves to get up because Steve hears Grace starting to move around, Danny makes pancakes. If Grace thinks it's odd that Uncle Steve is there, she doesn't say anything; Danny thinks she's just too happy to care, because sometime between when they rolled out of bed and now, he's planned out the whole day.

When breakfast is over, they head out – Steve's driving Danny's car, of course, because Danny's not going to let Grace anywhere near that deathtrap of a car Steve insists on dragging out, no matter how much she protests – and they make a day of it.

When it's time for them to drop Grace off, it sucks, but Danny doesn't think he'll get drunk, after all. Instead, he lets Steve drag him back to his place, after he repeatedly informs him that his mother's at a friend's, and Steve puts steaks on the grill while they sit out on the lanai. And if he thinks it's cheesy when Steve sticks a few candles on the table – Smooth Dog, he decides, has to have been an ironic nickname – he doesn't say anything.

And as the sun starts to set over the water, and he and Steve are sitting on a blanket on his own private beach, Danny thinks to himself that, yeah…

There's gonna be a lot more next times.


	4. Ohuna (The Secret)

It's kind of hard to describe how he feels when he sees Doris and Mer hugging in the doorway. A part of him – the largest part, he swears – is happy and relieved. He knows his family is broken, and it can never _really_ be put back together, but some of the pieces still seem to fit okay, and that's a start.

There is a part o him, though, that selfishly wishes this little reunion, heartwarming as it is, could've waited until morning. He knows it's an asshole thing to think, and it shouldn't matter what time it is or how much of his skin is throbbing, as long as his sister and his mother are together again.

And it doesn't. Not really. He's had way worse than a long day and a little bit of road rash before. Besides, if anyone has the right to complain, it's Kono. He only got dragged behind a truck a little; she got thrown out of one.

Still, something tells him it's gonna be a while before he gets to go to bed, and he guesses he's just gonna have to be okay with that.

"Have you had dinner yet?" he hears Doris ask, and he tries not to wince, he really does, but neither his sister nor his mother have outstanding track records in the kitchen. A hostage situation, he can handle, and that arrest this afternoon was pretty satisfying, but he thinks the fire marshal would probably put a damper on his otherwise-passable day.

Mercifully, he sees Mer nod, and he can relax knowing the kitchen will live to cook another day. The living room, however, looks like it's not getting out of this one, because they're headed for the couch. Doris has her hand on Mer's back, and they're laughing at something as they sit. Steve has no idea what they're talking about – the acoustics of the room weren't designed with reconnaissance in mind – but damn did they get chummy fast.

It's not that he minds, because he really, _really_ doesn't. Laughing women are way better than screaming ones, every day of the week, and if it means he has to sacrifice the downstairs for a night, then so be it. He might actually get to sleep tonight after all.

"Oh, Steve," he hears Doris call, and he pretends he hasn't been listening to her the whole time as he walks up to the loft rail and looks down. He knows it's probably moot; she probably made him as soon as he started listening in, but it seems like the polite thing to do.

Danny would be so proud.

"Steve?" Doris calls again. He's leaning over the rail as far as he dares – because it turns out, there are consequences to getting dragged behind an armored car going seventy miles an hour, vest or no vest – and they're both looking up at him.

He raises his eyebrows. "Yeah?"

"Are you going to bed?"

He glances back at his bedroom, then down to them again. "That was the plan," he tells her. It isn't necessarily true; the plan _had_ been to sit downstairs and watch some television and maybe crack open a beer, but plans had changed, and he could be okay with that, considering the circumstances. Anyway, he has a TV in his bedroom; he'll make do.

"I think we ran him off," Mer says. And either she's trying to be loud, or she really needs to learn how to whisper, because she kind of missed the mark in a big way.

He just smiles at them. "It's past my bedtime."

"Are you sure, Steve? We can go upstairs, if you want to come down here."

"No, I think I'm gonna turn in," he says. "You kids have fun." And damned if that's not kind of funny to say, but he's too tired to laugh. Instead, he gives them a wave and a muttered 'good night' and leaves them to it.

He's still wearing his work clothes when he drops onto his bed. He landed on his front, which is, in hindsight, an error, because his stomach stings, and he's quick to roll back over onto his back. He's got a little bit of road rash on his back left shoulder, but it's barely more than a rug burn, and it's easy enough to ignore it and focus his attention on feeling blindly around the table by his bed for the remote.

There's a game on, and he doesn't mind watching that. Not that he's watching it for very long.

He can't say for sure when it was he dozed off – it's kind of hard to tell with those sorts of things – but he's drifting comfortably in that place between consciousness and sleep where he can still hear the sounds of voices downstairs and the low murmur of the television, but it's all pleasantly distant.

Of course, that doesn't stop his hand from snapping to the gun on his bed table when he hears a knock on his door.

"At ease, soldier," he hears from just outside his room, and through the crack in the door, he catches sight of a familiar head of blond and brown hair. It's soon followed by the rest of its owner, as Danny slips in the door.

Steve furrows his brows. "Danno? What're you doing here?" He doesn't mean to sound unwelcoming, but either he's dreaming – which he doubts, because he's not a pig, he swears, but Danny probably wouldn't still be wearing his work clothes – or Danny has some explaining to do.

"Currently?" Danny replies. "Well, Steve, right now, I'm being held at gunpoint."

Steve realizes he is, in fact, still aiming his gun at the door, and he promptly puts his gun back on the table. When he's done, he turns back to Danny, an eyebrow raised expectantly. "_Now_, what are you doing here?"

Danny lowers his hands down to his sides and steps a little farther into the room. "I'm visiting," he says. "Your mom and sister told me you were up here."

"Visiting?"

"Yes, Steve. Visiting. You know, that thing people do where they, you know, _visit_ with one another?"

He doesn't sound angry, Steve decides, and he can't see that vein on his forehead that he's learned to look for. He's still in the clear, then. "I know what visiting _means_, Danny," he deadpans. "I'm asking why you're doing it."

Danny folds his arms across his chest and pretends to think. "Because I missed you?" he suggests.

"Try again."

"You have issues. You know that?" Danny says.

Steve forces himself to keep a straight face – because now that he knows Danny's not angry, their banter's quickly becoming the highlight of his day – and nods. "You might've mentioned it a few times, yeah."

Danny snorts. "Might've mentioned it a few—" He stops himself and smiles, pressing his hands together in a steeple. "Well, at least I know you listen to me _sometimes_."

"Sorry, what was that?"

"You're lucky you're pretty."

Steve cocks his head to the side, and he's given up trying to keep his face blank. "You think I'm pretty?"

That merits an eye roll. "Of course," Danny says. "_That_, you hear."

"Seriously, though – you think I'm pretty?" Steve's grinning, leaning back on his arms partly in an effort to keep his belt out of his road rash, but mostly because he's feeling kind of smug.

Danny looks unimpressed, but he's moved closer, so his legs are nearly touching Steve's knees hanging over the foot of the bed. "Right now, I think you're annoying."

"Is that right?" It's really too easy to reach up and pull Danny down to his level. With one hand on the back of his head and his legs hooked around Danny's – because although he's all for contact, but he doesn't think either of them would enjoy Danny toppling over onto him – he leans up and captures his lips.

He feels the bed shift as Danny braces a hand beside him. The other comes to rest on his hip, and he's totally fine with that.

What he's not so fine with is when Danny's hand starts moving upward, and he curses himself for it, but he can't help hissing when Danny's hand finds his road rash.

Danny very deliberately leans back. His hand has fallen from Steve's stomach down to bracket his hip just like the other one, and he's looking at Steve with a very pointed expression that he usually reserves for suspects that have gone and done something stupid.

He bites his lip, looks down, then looks back up. "Steve," he says, his voice a little too even and a little to saccharine to be entirely safe, "what was that?"

"Well, you see, when two adults love each other very much—"

"Please, I beg of you, do _not_ make me smack you."

Clearly, Danny is not buying what he's selling.

He tries again. "It's nothing, Danno. Don't worry about it."

"Why do I feel like those are gonna be your last words?"

"Not a chance," Steve says firmly. "My last words are gonna be way cooler."

Danny sighs, and yep, there it is. There's the vein. Danny's head falls forward, and Steve knows he's making a concerted effort not to blow his top, which he appreciates, because apparently sometime while he was napping, his neck muscles decided they really didn't like crashing a car. He's got a steady throbbing from his shoulders to the space behind his eyes, and while it's not that hard to ignore, he thinks it might get a little harder if his boyfriend starts yelling.

"May I see?" he says finally, and Steve thinks if his voice gets anymore taut, it'll probably snap.

"See what?"

"I don't know, Steven." Steven. Now he knows he's in trouble. "That's what I am trying to find out, if you will let me _see_ without going ninja-SEAL on me and twisting my arm off."

If it wasn't for the stern look Danny is giving him, Steve would probably laugh. He isn't sure how much of what Danny said he could do, he actually _thought_ he could do, but he thinks it's kind of funny.

Except, right now, Danny looks serious, and it's not quite as funny anymore. He's not going to be able to get out of this one; he knows that. So, he doesn't try. Instead, he sighs, and goes for the hem of his shirt. Danny's nice enough to straighten up and give him space to pull his shirt up over his head, and no, his head _really_ doesn't like that, but he gets it off and tosses it over in the general direction of his clothes hamper.

Danny's whole face seems to fall, before it disappears behind his hands. He always does this when he's frustrated. He rubs his face, and Steve already knows the sighs coming before he hears it.

When Danny drops his hands, he's looking at Steve like he can't decide whether to lynch him or lecture him.

"I knew it," he says.

That's…definitely not what Steve was expecting. "I'm sorry, what?"

"You. This." He gestures up and down Steve's bare, scuffed torso. "I knew it."

And that's when it clicks. "You're checking up on me," Steve says, and he's actually smiling. There's always something satisfying about figuring Danny out. "And here I thought you just wanted the pleasure of my company."

"That's funny." He's not laughing, and the smile on his face is more incredulous and exasperated than amused. "But no. No, I am here because I _saw_ you after the bust, pulling your shredded paper routine. I thought, knowing you, I should probably—" He stop short, scowling. "What? Why—why are you smiling? Is something funny?"

Steve knows he's about to catch hell for it, but he can't bring himself to wipe the goofy grin off his face. "You were worried about me."

"Yes," Danny says sharply. "Yes, I was. I was worried about you, just like I am _always_ worried about you, you suicidal Neanderthal animal. Is this news to you?"

Steve shakes his head and decides to ignore his head's not-so-friendly reminder that movement is a bad idea. "Nah," he says. "I just like to hear you say it."

"Yeah, well, hear me say it from your bathroom."

"What?"

"Oh, is your selective hearing kicking back in? Should I repeat myself?"

Steve narrows his eyes. "Is this some weird form of time out?"

"You need professional help."

"So I've heard."

Danny stares at him for a second, then claps his hands against his thighs, and damned if Steve doesn't nearly wince. Whiplash is a bitch. "Alright, Sasquatch, up you get." He offers Steve a hand, too.

Steve just looks at it. "Danny," he says slowly.

"What?"

"It's a _road rash_."

"Meaning…what, exactly?"

"Meaning," Steve says, "I can definitely stand by myself."

For a second, Danny frowns, but then he steps back, holding his hands up. "Fine," he says. "Of course. Far be it from me to give the Super SEAL a hand."

"That's not what I meant." He stands, and closes the distance Danny just put between them.

"Hey, hey, what are you doing?" Danny says as Steve puts a hand on either of his shoulders, but Steve just looks him straight in the eye and smiles.

"Thank you."

It's not often that Danny get's too flustered for words, but Steve thinks he has him for a minute there. Just when he's about to get worried, though, Danny smiles back, albeit begrudgingly, and rolls his eyes. "Alright, alright. If you really want to thank me, go clean up. You look like someone tried to use you as a skateboard." To illustrate his point, he hooks a finger in the waistband of Steve's cargos and pulls them down a little. The worst of the road burn is about the size of his hand, stretching from just above his navel where his vest ended down a little past his hip bones, and it's turned an angry red that looks about how it feels: painful. "Yikes."

"I've had worse," Steve tells him.

Danny shrugs. "So have I. Doesn't mean it doesn't hurt like a bitch. Now," he turns Steve around by his shoulders and starts pushing him towards the adjoining bathroom, "march, two, three, four."

It's a sure sign of just how bad he's got it for his partner that he actually lets Danny march him into the bathroom like a toy soldier, and then he doesn't even complain when Danny all but shuts the door in his face.

Worse, he actually smiles to himself, and after shedding the rest of his clothes, he turns on the shower and steps under the spray.

He'd be lying if he said it doesn't sting like a swarm of fucking hornets when the hot water hit each of the little – and the one not-so-little – scuffs from his para-skidding adventure that afternoon, but like he told Danny, he's had worse. He toughs it out, letting the water wash out all the dirt and debris he knows is still lodged in the abraded skin, and it's almost died down to a dull burn when he hears the door open.

He pokes his head out of the shower curtain, and is surprised to see Danny minus one tie and his dress shirt – he's wearing a t-shirt now, and Steve thinks with just the slightest hint of satisfaction that it looks like one of his – rifling through the cabinets under the sink.

"I thought the rule was wait until at least the third date before you start sniffing through the medicine cabinets," he says, and he knows as soon as Danny turns around and he sees his chest puff out under the t-shirt – _definitely _one of his – that he's about to get an earful.

"Let's get two things straight," Danny says. He's got one hand on his hip and the other holding up a finger. "One, this is _not_ a date, nor should it even be considered in the _realm_ of a date. And two, if it _was_ a date, which it definitely isn't, it would _be_ the third one."

Steve frowns. "You can't count the bar," he says.

"Oh, oh yes I can. The cracked rib says I can."

"It was an accident, Danny," Steve protests. "I said I was sorry."

"And I believe you," Danny says. He's still looking through the cabinets, and Steve thinks about asking what he's looking for so he can save him the trouble, but Danny starts talking again before he gets the chance. "I also believe that you, my friend, are the only man _on this planet_ capable of not only _accidentally_ choosing the bar frequented by Yakuza enforcers, but also _accidentally_ pissing those enforcers off bad enough that they feel the need to start a bar fight of Bronx Talean proportions."

"What can I say?" Steve shrugs, and he's relieved when it doesn't twinge his neck nearly as bad. The hot water's helping that, even if it does feel like it's boiling the skin of his lower abdomen. "I'm a man of many talents."

"You're also a man of many toiletries," Danny remarks, and Steve watches him sit back on his haunches. "Seriously, what is all this?"

"What's it look like?"

"It _looks_ like you're running a beauty salon out of your bathroom sink."

"Damn, and I thought I was being so sneak about it, too."

"I told you, babe: I'm a great detective." He seems to have found what he was looking for, too, because he stands, and Steve recognizes the red plastic tackle box he's holding in his hand. "Gotta have some reason for you to keep me around."

"I already have plenty of reasons," Steve replies.

Danny's eyebrows jump up a little. "Oh wow, that—that was a new level of cheesy, even for you, Smooth Dog."

"I was trying to pay you a compliment." Rolling his eyes, Steve holds out a hand. "Pass me that towel, would you?"

Danny does, and Steve does a rush job drying off before wrapping the towel around his waist and stepping out of the shower. There's clean briefs and pajama pants waiting on the sink for him, but Danny's nowhere to be found, so he gets dressed and pads out to the bedroom.

"Those're riding a little low, don't you think?" Danny says as he walks into the bedroom. Steve's not as surprised as he should be to see a few things already laid out across his bed, from gauze to antibiotic ointment.

Steve raises an eyebrow. "Haven't you heard of letting it air out?"

Danny just smiles. "First, I think it's very cute you asking me about _my_ hearing. But in case you've forgotten, I have a ten-year-old daughter."

"And that has anything to do with this…how?"

"I'll tell you what that has to do with this. I started teaching Grace how to ride a bike when she was five."

The mental image of Danny pushing Grace on a bike down some Jersey rode is either enough to make him smile or cringe.

"My point being," Danny continues, "I've had plenty of experience with skinned knees and elbows. You do not 'air it out' the day you get it."

Steve resists the urge to point out that, actually, his elbows and knees are fine. Something tells him Danny wouldn't appreciate it.

Apparently, Danny's satisfied he's made his point, because he nods him over. "Sit," he says, and he pats the bed.

"I'm not a puppy," Steve says.

"Of course you're not," Danny replies. "Puppies are eager to please their masters; you, babe, are eager to antagonize."

Steve thinks about telling Danny that isn't true, but he decides Danny knows that and he's just being wise. He also decides that it's _not_ because he wants to prove Danny wrong that he walks over and sits on the bed, but that he's just really damn tired, and that bed looks really inviting.

He sits down, and Danny's waiting with a tube of antibiotic cream to hand him.

"Make sure you get it covered, otherwise it's gonna be a bitch tomorrow when you change the bandage."

Steve glances up from smearing the ointment on his burn. "Yes, _master_," he says, smirking, and okay, he probably deserves the flick to his nose, but still. "Did you just flick me on the nose?"

"Yes. Yes I did."

"Can I ask _why_?"

Danny shrugs. "I saw it on Animal Planet once."

It used to be that explanation would raise some questions. But then Grace started hanging around, and he'd seen more _It's Me Or The Dog_ than he'd ever wanted to, and suddenly, it made a lot more sense.

So, he'll let this one slip, just this once. Besides, he's finished with the welt on his stomach, and he has to concentrate, because he's looking at his reflection in one of his paintings, trying to figure out how the hell he's getting the little one on the back of his left arm.

He's got a plan. Really he does. He's not looking forward to stretching that much, but he can definitely handle it.

Except Danny takes the tube before he can put his plan into action and sits down on the bed behind him. "This one's not so bad," Danny remarks idly as he starts applying the cream. "You know, for being dragged under a moving vehicle."

"Hey, it worked," Steve protests.

He sees Danny nod in the reflection of one of the frames on the wall. "That it did. That it certainly did. You got the evil stepmother of all rug burns, but hey, it could've been worse, right?" He gets up to wash his hands, and comes back with a wet washcloth for Steve to wipe his own off while Danny gets started on the bandages.

"It _could_ have been worse, Danny," Steve tells him. It could've been a lot worse.

Danny sighs. "I know. I'm just—I'm trying to wrap my head around why every one of your heroic plans always seem to end with you missing, at the very least, a layer of your skin."

"It's part of my process." It isn't, of course. Not intentionally, anyway. But it's better he gets a little scuffed up than one of his team members gets a little dead. And he knows he's being a smartass, but he doesn't like that look in Danny's eyes. He doesn't look so much worried as sad, and that…that doesn't sit right. "Hey," he says, turning around on the bed so that he can look at Danny without the help of a reflection, "I'm fine."

Danny opens his mouth to say something, but for once, Steve beats _him_ to it.

"I mean it, Danno. I'm a little scuffed up. It happens. What matters is that we got Kono back, everyone made it out okay, and—"

But Danny stops him there. "Okay, okay," he says. "Okay. I get it. I'm not _happy_ about it, but I get it."

"I can work with that." And normally, with Danny seated so conveniently on his bed, wearing one of _his_ shirts he might add, he would be. Working with it, he means.

Unfortunately, he's having a hard time keeping his eyes open, and with his pulse pounding a steady tempo in his ears, what he really wants to do is pass out and sleep for a few years.

"Head hurt?"

Steve's too worn out to bother lying. Besides, Danny just spent the past fifteen minutes mummifying his midsection; he thinks they're past the point of bravado. "How'd you guess?"

"You mean aside from the fact that you're squinting at me like you're staring into the sun?" There's an opening there for a really cheesy compliment; Steve knows there is. He just can't think of it right now. "I've crashed a car before, babe. Whiplash is not a fun thing."

"Can I get that in writing?" Steve asks. "The part where you crash a car?"

"Of course, that's your takeaway."

Steve just shrugs.

Danny starts to stand, though, and he's thinking about apologizing, but then Danny heads for the dresser instead of the door. There's a glass of water sitting on it and a couple pills, and he grabs both before coming back over to stand in front of Steve. "These are for you," he says, holding out the pills. "And none of this 'don't need it' bullhockey, because I'm not—" He falters when Steve takes the pills and dry swallows them without so much as a protest. He blinks for a second. "Okay, then." But then he seems to decide to go with it, because he offers Steve the class of water, waits until he's drained the whole thing, and then puts it back on the counter.

Steve's laying back on the bed by the time he gets back over, one arm slung across his eyes and his legs hanging over the edge of the bed.

"What're you doing?" Danny says, and Steve can't see his face, but his voice sounds equal parts exasperated and sympathetic. If there's any annoyance in there, it's only a trace, and he peeks out from under his arm to see Danny watching him with crossed arms and furrowed brows. "You can't sleep there, babe."

"It's a bed. People sleep in beds."

"Correction: people sleep _all the way_ in beds. Not hanging half off."

Steve covers his face again. "'m fine."

"Yeah, well my back's having fits just looking at you, so please, for my sake," Danny's fingers link in his, and he pulls his arm away. When the blur finally clears from Steve's eyes, he sees Danny leaning over him with an almost apologetic smile. "Up."

That is actually the one direction Steve _least_ wants to go, but Danny's got that look, and before Steve even makes the conscious decision to do it, he's sitting up and scooting back towards the head of the bed.

"Hang on."

Steve's shoulders slump. "Danny—"

"Before you start bitching, just give me a second." Steve hears the rustle of clothes and the slide of a drawer, but he's got his eyes closed, so it's not until he feels the bed shift behind him and he actually turns to look that he figures out what Danny's talking about.

Danny's leaning back against the head of the bed, and when he sees he's got Steve's attention, he pats the bed between his now pajama-clad legs.

Steve doesn't need to be told, verbally or non-verbally, twice. Mustering up the last of his reserves – and he knows Danny's got to be just as tired as he is; he can see the lines on his face, and he's really not sure why Danny acts like he's the tough one all the time, because _damn_ – he pushes up to the spot Danny's made for him and lets Danny pull him back to lean against his chest.

When he first feels hands settle on his shoulders, he can't help it; he tenses. Hands that close to his neck make him antsy.

But then he feels a chuckle against his back. "Easy there, Super SEAL," Danny says, his voice quiet and rasped and just fucking perfect. "Relax. Your shoulder blades are digging into my kidneys."

Steve finds it's not all that hard to comply with Danny's thumbs somehow finding every single knot and tear in his shoulders and neck and smoothing them away. His hands are warm and firm and welcome, and Steve can feel that familiar haze starting to close in around his head. The football game is over, he thinks; the post-game is barely a murmur in the background. He's more focused on the sound of Danny's breaths, anyway.

He barely even stirs when he feels another chuckle. "Think I should call your mom up here, ask if I can bunk over?"

Steve manages to peel an eye open and lean his head back enough to fix Danny with a teasing smile. "You gotta ask my mom for permission?"

"Damn straight." Danny doesn't even hesitate. "Rule number one in any successful relationship: do not piss off the in-laws. Especially not when those in-laws are ex-CIA super spooks."

Steve barely hears the last part; he's too busy replaying the first bit in his head, and he's grinning wider now as he looks up at Danny. "Successful relationship?" he says. "In-laws?"

He feels Danny's heartbeat kick up against his back, and he can see a bit of color rise to Danny's face, even though he manages to stay pretty stoic. "It's just a figure of speech."

"Right, yeah." Steve nods, but his smile doesn't go anywhere, even as he lets his eyes slide closed and his head fall back against Danny's chest. For a second, nothing exists but the sound of Danny's heartbeat and the feel of his chest, rising and falling steadily against Steve's back, and Steve can't help thinking, headache and road rash and exhaustion and all, he's never been more comfortable in his entire life.

_Just a figure of speech,_ Danny said.

"You know," he mumbles, and his tongue is nearly as heavy as his eyes. "I wouldn't mind if it wasn't."


	5. Huaka'i Kula (Field Trip)

It's been two days since the camping trip from hell, and Danny can finally put weight on his arm. He thinks he's putting it to good use, too, propping himself up on the floor of the tent while he puts a hurting on another slice of pizza.

Pizza and marshmallows – the dinner of champions. He knows Rachel would be blowing her tea kettle if she knew he was feeding this to their daughter, but he just can't bring himself to care, because Grace is here and she's happy and to hell with Rachel. And if just a little bit of guilt rises in his chest for thinking that, well, then the next bite of pizza and specially-toasted marshmallow help wash it down alright.

He reaches for another slice, but just before he can get one separated, there's a knock on the door. He's been expecting this one for a few minutes, and he can't keep the smile off his face as he pushes himself up and crawls out of the tent. His knee's really not sure it likes this whole indoor-camping thing, but he and his arm have mutually agreed it's an improvement to the 'real' thing.

There's another knock on the door as he's padding over to it, firmer this time, and he rolls his eyes. "I'm coming," he says. "Just give me a second before you break my door down." Because he's learned that's closed doors don't generally last long around his boyfriend, and he really doesn't care to lose his deposit on the apartment.

Mercifully, it doesn't seem like his door was really in any danger. When he opens it, Steve is standing patiently – more or less, anyway – on the doormat, a smile on his face and a grocery bag under his arm.

"I come bearing gifts," he says. For a second, Danny's not sure whether he's referring to the groceries, or the kiss he steals right when Danny's about to tell him to come in, but then he decides he doesn't really care which one, and steps aside to let him in.

"You can sit that anywhere," he tells him. "There's pizza in the tent, if you're hungry."

He isn't fool enough to think that Steve didn't notice the massive tent sitting in the middle of his apartment before, but it _does_ take him that long to decide to mention it.

There's a smile on his face as he turns to Danny, leaning in close to whisper, "I thought you didn't like camping."

"Oh, I don't." He really, really doesn't. "But this—this is good. No man-eating wild boars, no crazy guys with guns trying to shoot me—"

That seems to spark something in Steve. "Your arm still okay?"

It's kind of weird, Danny thinks. Normally when people ask stuff like that, there's this note of formality about it. Like they're asking because they should, not because they're genuinely curious. With Steve, though, with the way he's looking at him, he feels like Steve would just as soon rather take off the bandages and see for himself, but he's holding himself back out of respect.

Danny applauds his restraint. "It's okay," he tells Steve.

"What are its views on camping?"

"Oh, it still hates camping. It's just hating it a little less vocally, now."

Steve nods. "That's good."

"It is," Danny agrees. "How's the mouth? That guy popped you pretty good."

He's surprised Steve's grin doesn't open the split on his lip. "It still likes camping just fine."

He wants to say something smart, but he can't help chuckling, because honestly, he's pretty sure Steve actually enjoyed their little misadventure. Maybe not the part about the girls being in danger, and Danny likes to think he wouldn't repeat the part about him getting shot, but he thinks sometimes that Steve feels…out of place. It's different from how Danny feels coming to this pineapple-infested slice of hell. It's not that Steve doesn't belong here, because he does. He really, really does.

But sometimes, Danny sees him when they're at work, and it's like he's always holding something back. He catches glimpses of it, when Steve's duking it out with some professional killer that could probably kill half of HPD with a rubber band and a sheet of paper, or when he's running into a location, gun at the ready, about to do the definition of a crazy thing because they don't have other options and Steve, lord help him, isn't afraid.

He saw it the other day, in the jungle, too. That hardness in his eyes, that fierceness that's damn near predatory, and he wonders how much of himself Steve has to hold back every day just to keep from letting it slip through.

Because he can tell, when Steve does let it come through, when all that training takes over and that laser-focus is like a sniper's scope, that as dire as the situation is, he seems a little more at ease with himself. He knows its clichéd, but it's kind of like a tiger in a jungle that's just broken out of its cage, and yeah, it's scary to see, but damned if it's not kind of beautiful, too.

It's volatile, though, and the fact of the matter is, Danny prefers _this_ version of Steve much, much better. He doesn't look like he's holding himself back now, either, but it's a different part of him that's showing through. It's the man, rather than the SEAL. It's the guy that loves Longboard beers and spoiling Grace – because he knows, he _knows_, Steve's got more junk food in that bag than the marshmallows he asked him to bring – and he doesn't think he's being presumptuous when he says that, yeah, Steve seems to love him, too.

He definitely seems to love kissing him, because Danny barely makes it to the flap of the tent before Steve turns him around and steals another one.

"Uncle Steve!" The half cheer, half complaint coming from inside the tent breaks them apart, and Steve and Danny both glance towards the tent. Grace walked in on them – just kissing, thank God, because that's a conversation he's not ready to have until Grace is forty – a couple weeks ago, when Steve decided to remind Danny that he is, in fact, more fun on the couch than three Victoria Secret Models, and despite Danny's moment of panic, she'd just grinned and asked if it meant that Uncle Steve would be around more often.

No, she's not complaining about them kissing, Danny thinks. She's complaining about him hogging Steve outside the tent. She really likes Steve, and the feeling's definitely mutual. Sometimes, he almost gets the impression that Steve's adopted her in his head, and Danny's not inclined to set any sort of record straight.

"Alright, Monkey, we're coming," he says. He nods to Steve to go first, partly because his spot is closest to the flap, and partly because, as much grief as he gives him for them, cargo pants make his ass look _really_ good.

Steve smiles like he knows it, too, and after pausing long enough to kick off his shoes and socks, he climbs into the tent. Danny's not far behind him, and as Steve settles down in the corner with his legs crossed, Danny resumes his early position. This time, though, he's leaning his shoulder against Steve's side, so he can feel his torso shake with a laugh as Grace informs him of their evening's plan.

"Oh," Danny says, "that's not even the best part." He nods to Grace. "Go ahead. Tell him what Lucy said."

"She said she was gonna marry you, Uncle Steve," Grace reports dutifully.

Steve's whole face breaks into an amused grin. "She did?" The way he says it is kind of funny, in that over-energized humoring-a-kid voice that would seem at odds with the rest of him if Danny didn't know him so well. By day, stone-faced Super SEAL; by night, honorary ten-year-old.

Danny thinks it's cute.

"Well, Gracie, you tell Lucy I said that's very sweet."

But to Danny's surprise, Grace shakes her head. "I can't," she says. "I already told her she can't marry you."

Steve glances over at Danny, but Danny shrugs. He hasn't heard this part of the story, either.

"Why'd you tell her that, Monkey?" Danny asks. He knows there are the obvious reasons, but ten-year-olds don't generally concern themselves with statutory laws and such.

When Grace beams, Danny gets the feeling he's in trouble.

"Because," she tells them seriously, "Uncle Steve's gonna marry you." She says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

Danny, for his part, nearly chokes on the marshmallow he decided – unwisely, in retrospect – to pop in his mouth. Steve pats his back, but Danny can feel his abs shaking with laughter, so it's really hard to be grateful.

As Danny manages to get his airways clear, Grace pops up. "I'll be right back," she says. She climbs over Danny and out of the tent, and Danny can only assume the can and a half of soda she's had since she got here – he wonders if Rachel can sense, like, a sugary disturbance in the Force yet; if not, she will by the time Steve's had his way – is finally having an effect.

"So," Steve says once she's gone, and Danny looks up to see him grinning down at him, "should I take a knee right now, or would that seem contrived?"

It's scary how hard it is to tell if he's joking or not. Damn Navy SEALs and their poker faces.

He decides just to play along, because he thinks that's probably the least conniption-inducing option.

"You have your own private beach, and you want to propose in a tent?" He shakes his head. "Smooth Dog was definitely an ironic nickname."

"Hey, I'm smooth," Steve protests.

"As sandpaper, babe."

Steve gets a devilish little grin on his face. "Then I guess it's a good think you like it rough."

Danny smacks him on the leg. "Animal."

"You say that like it isn't a compliment."

"That's because it isn't." Although the words lose a little of their conviction when Steve leans down and kisses him again. Seriously, he thinks Steve has some sort of problem. He thinks kissing qualifies as a coherent, sensible response. It's not that Danny's complaining, mind, it's just hard to get the last word in when there are way more interesting things he could be doing with his lips.

He reminds himself, however, that his ten-year-old daughter will be back any minute, and that thought's pretty sobering.

Sure enough, he hears the padding of bare feet on the floor, and a few seconds later, Grace pops her head in.

"I'm back," she announces.

Steve grins at her, and Danny decides it's a little too innocent for someone that just used his lips as leverage. "It's about time! We were about to start without you." He holds up a marshmallow that Danny never saw him reach for and the stick that's propped on the now-empty bag from before. Once he's got his victim speared, he grabs the lighter and starts burning it like it's damned.

Danny sits up a little higher "What are you doing to that thing, babe?"

"I'm toasting it."

"No, Steve, what you're doing is burning it within an inch of its life."

Steve shrugs. "I like them burnt," he says, and then looks at Grace like, 'Can you believe this guy?'

Danny just lets out a sigh. "Communists. I'm surrounded by communists." But he's smiling all the same, and it's suddenly impossible to think of a place he'd rather be.

* * *

It's later, when Grace has nodded off and Steve has literally carried her off to bed – because, as expected, she crashed, and she crashed hard – and they've settled in as well. Steve's wearing his pajama pants and a Navy t-shirt he's left over for just such occasions, and Danny's wearing something similar from Newark P.D., and they're both so close they're breathing the same air.

He feels Steve take in a breath that's a little deeper, and he knows he's about to break the silence.

"I'm not Rachel," he says. Just three words, said so randomly, so casually, and yet Danny gets the impression there's a lot more behind him.

But he's dog tired, and any conversation that starts that way, he's not sure he wants to have. "Go to sleep, babe."

He feels Steve let out a sigh and pull him closer, and he thinks, for a second, that he's won. A few seconds pass – minutes, maybe – and Danny can feel himself dozing off, until the silence is broken one more by Steve's soft, drowsy voice.

"I wouldn't mind waking up married to a cop."

Danny thinks he should probably say something, but he's not sure what to say to that. Besides, Steve doesn't act like he's expecting an answer. With a contented hum, he wraps his arm a little tighter around Danny – not enough to be constricting, just enough to let him know that Steve wants him close – and presses a lazy kiss to Danny's neck.

His breathing evens out not long after that, and even though Danny's mind is stuck on repeat, playing back those nine words over and over again, he's just too tired and full and comfortable.

Just as he's drifting off, though, he has a vague sort of thought.

He wouldn't mind waking up to a SEAL, either.


	6. Kapu (Forbidden)

Steve thinks he actually gets a bit misty-eyed when Danny tells him he wants to take his nephew out for some loco moco. And no, it has nothing to do with Dr. Stevens and his kid, Avery. He's just proud is all. He's thinking he might make an islander out of Danny, yet.

He's even happier when Danny asks him along. It's not like he's a sap or anything, because he's not. Seriously. Ask anybody.

Except Danny. Don't ask him.

As much of a sap as he isn't, though, it's no secret that Danny's family is important to him. The fact that he wants to involve Steve in it means a lot.

It's good that he does, anyway, Steve thinks. Danny wouldn't know a good loco moco joint if one jumped out at him and did the hula.

Clearly, he needs sleep. But first, loco moco, and a little something extra.

"What's this?" Danny says as Steve pulls the Camaro into the first open end spot he sees. He thinks it's kind of silly, after all the shit they put this car through, to really bother parking on the end, but Danny seems to prefer it, and that's enough for him. Besides, he doesn't mind the extra walk. They could all probably use it, what with the heart-attack-on-a-plate they're about to scarf down.

Steve just grins, shrugging innocently as he steps out of the car. "You said you wanted loco moco."

"Yes, I did. I did say that. So then what are we doing here?" Danny gestures to the building they're parked in front of.

Eric doesn't seem to have quite as many reservations, though. "Yo, man, a bowling alley?" he says, and he looks like Steve just told him Christmas came early. Or that they were going back to that sorority house. Honestly, speaking as someone that was once a teenage boy, he's pretty sure he knows which 'E-Train' would rather.

"You just can't help yourself, can you?" Danny says. They've met up at the hood of the car, with Eric walking ahead, and Steve wonders if it's because Eric isn't looking that he gives him a fond smile and a bump with his elbow as they walk. He wouldn't mind if it is – however Danny thinks he should handle this, he's gonna trust his judgment.

Okay. He wouldn't mind _much._

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," Steve tells him smoothly.

"Do all you SEALs lie this badly?"

"Only when we want to get caught."

That earns him one of Danny's patented 'I don't actually buy that, but I'm going to nod skeptically at you, because I'm sarcastic by default' nods. And yes, that is a thing; Steve thinks it's the third one he's gotten that day, but really, who's counting?

"So, what's the plan?" Danny asks. "You gonna show off your mad bowling skills for us?"

Steve glances over at him, still grinning. "Have I ever told you it's _adorable_ how you think I'm good at everything?" Vaguely, he's aware he should maybe be a little more careful with the flirting with Danny's new ward around, but he's nearly at the door, and they're just halfway across the parking lot, so he doesn't think they're at risk of being overheard.

Danny, for his part, doesn't seem to mind. He snorts at him. "Everything? Yeah, no. I don't think so, babe."

"I mean, I'm not a model or anything…" Steve hedges, and when Danny looks over, he doesn't even try to keep a straight face. "Mr. November."

"Don't tell me – that's gonna become a thing now, isn't it?"

"I don't know about a thing, but it's definitely in the running to become the new wallpaper on my phone." The sad/funny/maybe-kind-of-creepy thing is, he's only half-joking.

"I'm going to erase that while you're sleeping," Danny tells him seriously.

Steve just grins a little wider. "I'd like to see you try, poster boy."

"Oh, is that—is that a challenge, Steve? Are you challenging me?"

"Maybe." He's pretty sure he can take him. He's protected things from the…well, that's classified. But the point is, clever as Danny is – and he _is_ really clever – he's ninety-five percent certain he can keep his phone safely out of his grasp.

Danny does this thing with his eyebrows, though, and he dons a damn near devious smirk. "We'll see about that."

Better make that ninety percent, Steve thinks. He may not have military training after all, but Danny's got ways to get to Steve that no agent-of-an-unspecified-but-decidedly-unfriendly-government has, and he's been known to use them. He still _vividly_ remembers the time he made the mistake of teasing Danny about those models. He'd given him zero odds of getting a phone number, and Danny had retaliated by giving him the same odds for sex that night.

Needless to say, Steve will not be questioning his boyfriend's flirting capabilities in the near future. Provided it's harmless, that is. And brief.

And there are potential witnesses.

"No, but really," he says before his mind can wander too far down that particular dark road, "there's a restaurant here called _The Alley_. Some of the best loco moco on the island."

Danny raises an eyebrow. "From a bowling alley?" He sounds dubious, to put it lightly.

They reach the door before Steve can answer, and he pulls it open for Danny and waves him through, rolling his eyes at him as he goes. "Where's your sense of adventure?" he asks as they walk inside. The place is kind of dark, but all the lanes are lit up in neon rainbow colors, and there's regular yellow light coming from behind the half-wall that separates the bowling area from the restaurant.

"My sense of adventure?" Danny says. "I work with you. And you, my friend, are all the adventure I need."

There's a lot of ways Steve can respond to that, he thinks, but Eric's kind of rejoined them, now that they're inside, so he bites back most of the ones that come to mind immediately, and instead says, "So, what do you guys want to do?"

Eric's the first to respond. "I haven't bowled in forever." And the way he says it, it sounds to Steve like he wants to remedy that situation.

"Bowling it is, then," he says, and then adds to Danny when he gets the Look – capital 'L' – "We'll eat after."

Seven frames in, Steve can see why he was so hesitant. Danny is good at a lot of things; Steve will be the first to admit that, even if it's not aloud. But wow, if gutterballs were an Olympic sport, he'd be dating a gold medalist.

Okay, so he's not that bad. But speaking as the person that's bowled a turkey, Steve thinks he's safely outside that particular glass house. On the plus side, Eric's not doing so hot either, so at least he isn't alone. He wonders if maybe it's a Jersey thing.

Wisely, he doesn't run his theory by Danny.

What he does, which he thinks is way less likely to land him on the couch, is wait until Danny's up – and it happens that Eric's gone to take a piss – and meet him over at the ball return.

"Here," he says, reaching around Danny to pick up a different one from the one he's been using. It's a different weight, heavier, and he thinks it'll keep Danny from spinning the damn thing straight into the gutter every time. "Try this one."

Danny turns and looks at him, one eyebrow raised as if to say 'really'?

Steve just holds it out more pointedly. "Would you just trust me?"

"What the hell," Danny says after a second, and he takes the bowling ball. "It's not like I can do any worse, right?"

"I wasn't going to say it." He really, really wasn't. Contrary to what Danny says, he's actually not an idiot. At least not that much of one.

He backs up enough to let Danny back away from the ball return, but he doesn't give much more than that. He follows him up to the lane, standing just far back enough and to the left that he thinks Danny would have to make a conscious effort to clock him with his new bowling ball.

Considering he didn't wear his cup today, he's thinking that situation's kind of ideal.

"Okay, so what you're gonna do is—"

Danny turns, and Steve reflexively steps back. "I do know how to bowl, you know" he says.

"Really?" Steve's trying really hard not to laugh, but there's exactly jack shit he can do to keep the grin off his face. Danny's just funny sometimes. "Because, you know, the goal is to keep the ball _between_ the gutters." He gestures down the lane illustratively.

He gets a thwap in the stomach – mercifully bowling-ball free – for his lip. "You're a smartass, you know that?"

"Yeah, I do." He leans in a little closer and lowers his voice. "But admit it: you think it's kind of sexy."

Danny turns, and if he notices that their faces are hardly inches apart, he doesn't show it. "I will beat you with this bowling ball," he says.

"As long as you're aiming for me, I think I'll be okay," Steve snipes back cheekily. He dodges an elbow that's definitely meant for his ribs, stepping around behind him and putting his left hand on Danny's hip while his right goes to Danny's wrist. He's pressed up flush against his side, and he's pretty sure people are staring, but he really doesn't give a damn. Let them.

"Let me guess: you've done this before."

Yes. Yes, he has. But in his defense, this wasn't _precisely_ what he'd had in mind. He used to bring girls here because he knew they couldn't bowl; he brought Danny because he kind of thought that he could. Not that he's complaining. He doesn't think he ever enjoyed himself before as much as he is now, and the firm strength of Danny pressed against his side feels better than any high school girlfriend ever did.

Danny doesn't need to know that, though. Well, Steve thinks, he probably already knows that; Steve just doesn't need to tell him. Not right now, anyway. There's time for that later, when he's not glancing back over his shoulder every few seconds to make sure E-Train's not back from the toilets.

Instead, he focuses his attention on the task at hand. "When you release it," he says, "Try not to twist your wrist so much."

"I'm not—"

"Trust me, remember?" Steve reminds him. He starts steering him forward, guides Danny's arm back, and keeps his wrist from twisting quite as much as before. He watches as Danny releases the ball, watches it roll at just a hint of an angle down the lane, until it crashes into the space between the front pin and the one behind it.

It isn't a strike. That would be too much. But he takes down eight of the ten, and it's not even a split, so he's doing _way_ better than he has been.

"Well, would you look at that," Danny says.

Steve resists the urge to say 'I told you so,' and instead claps him firmly on the back. "Knew you could do it." He thinks he can probably take it from there, and it's probably best that he lets him, because as he turns, he sees Eric coming back towards them. "You missed it," Steve tells him when he gets back over. "Danny here actually hit the pins."

"Oh, you're a riot." Danny's clearly being sarcastic again. "Seriously, you should take that act on the road. Preferably one very far away."

A lesser man might be insulted, but Steve knows better. He just grins all the wider and drops back into his seat, triumphant.

When he glances over, Eric rolling his eyes and dropping down in the seat next to Steve. "Jesus, no wonder that chick thought you two were married," he says.

The words are punctuated by the sharp thud of Danny's bowling ball hitting the wood of the lane.

Steve won't hold this gutter ball against him.

The others, though, he thinks are fair game, and there are a few of them yet throughout the rest of the game. In the end, Steve comes out on top, and he offers to pay for dinner as a consolation prize.

"Only you would think that _winning_ the game means you have to pay," Danny tells him over the table at dinner, when he's giving their waitress the check. In the end, he's converted another New Jersey boy to the school of the loco moco – even though he himself got the spicy shrimp – and more or less taught his boyfriend to bowl. All in all, he thinks he's made a day of it.

Still, he can't help feeling a little bit disappointed when it's time to head home. They're in Danny's car, so they swing by Steve's place to drop him off before Danny takes Eric on home.

"You guys want to come in for a while?" Steve offers as he gets out of the car. He just isn't quite ready to call it quits just yet.

But Danny shakes his head, an apologetic smile on his face. "Maybe another time," he says. "Gotta observe the curfew."

Steve thinks there's probably something he can point out there, mostly about how adults don't have to observe their own curfews, but he thinks better of it. It's late, anyhow, and they're both tired. He probably shouldn't keep Danny out too late.

Then again, he thinks, if he's too tired to drive home….

He quashes the thought. Dinner and bowling is one thing; it might be a little weird for Eric if they stayed the night at Steve's. So, instead, he just smiles and waves goodbye before heading off towards his house. He thinks he'll text Danny later or something. Not because he can't go the rest of the night without talking to him or anything.

He just doesn't _want_ to.

He gets inside, and after kicking his boots off by the door, he makes a bee-line for the door. Out of respect for Danny trying to get Eric on the straight and narrow and all, he didn't drink at dinner, but he could definitely use a beer now.

It really has been a long day. Between that _riveting_ car chase – he can't help smiling around the lip of his beer as he takes another swig – that trip up to Nihau, and his little game of red-tape jump rope to get Dr. Stevens that research grant for his son, Avery, he's pretty damn worn out. And even though he won't say it's better that Danny went home, because he could happily settle down on the couch with Danny and a beer and probably relax even better, he admits that he probably won't be awake long enough for it to really bother him.

He sits down on the couch, and he's reaching for the remote when there's a knock on his door. It's been about five minutes since he got home, and he can't think of anyone that would be stopping by at this hour, so he pushes himself out of the altogether _way_ too comfortable couch and walks the short distance to the door.

He peeks out through the curtain, and can't help the spike of curiosity at what he sees.

"Eric?" he says as he opens the door.

Sure enough, Danny's nephew is standing there on his doorstep, and if he looks past him, he can see Danny waving at him from inside the car. It's odd, he thinks. Why wouldn't Danny be coming in, too?

"Sorry, bro. I was wondering if I could use your bathroom before I go."

Steve's a little taken aback, but he nods anyway. "Yeah, sure." He steps out of the way to let Eric in points to the door off to the left. "Down the hall and to the right, just past the laundry room," he says.

Eric nods and slips past him, following Steve's directions until he's out of sight.

Steve glances back out the door, a curious look on his face, and Danny just shrugs at him from the Camaro.

"Hey, so I heard you have a pretty sweet old ride in your garage," he hears Eric say from down the hall, and he winces. He doesn't know why, but he hates that. People shouldn't talk when they're in the bathroom. Whatever he has to say, surely it can wait until he's finished his business.

There's the sound of a toilet flushing, of water running, and before long, Eric pokes his head out from around the door. "So?"

"So what?" Steve asks.

"So, can I see it?"

"Isn't Danny waiting for you?"

"He said I could," Eric says. "He said you'd probably get a kick out of showing it off."

Steve chuckles a little sheepishly. "What can I say? He knows me."

"That's what he told me."

Steve's not really sure what he means by that, but he doesn't really bother asking. He feels like, even though Danny told Eric he could, he probably shouldn't keep him waiting. Honestly, he has half a mind to go out there and drag Danny in the damn house, because it's really just kind of stupid for him to wait outside and waste gas.

But no, he'll make this brief.

He shows Eric the way to the garage, through the laundry room, and he can't deny the surge of pride when Eric lays eyes on the Marquis. He's put a lot of hours in on that car, and he likes to think it shows.

"Bro, this is sweet," Eric says. He's pacing around the car, and Steve can see in his eyes the look of a fellow car enthusiast. He guesses Danny just missed that gene. Which is okay, he thinks; Danny has to have _some_ flaws, otherwise he'd have a hard time believing he was real. He's already amazing as it is.

A part of him wonders how he got so lucky. Sure, he and Danny have their differences. They have their arguments. But even then, more often than not, Danny's only getting mad because he cares – or vice versa – and it's really hard to stay mad about something like that for long.

The fact of the matter is, he loves Danny. _Really_ loves him. It's the kind of love that makes his pulse speed up every time he's around, while at the same time making him feel more at ease than he does with anyone else. It's the kind of love that wakes him up at night, happy instead of haunted, because _only Danny_ can keep the nightmares away. It's the kind of love that makes his knees go week. Or maybe just the one, because every moment, he feels like he might suddenly drop and tell him everything and ask – _beg_ if he has to – for Danny to make him the happiest man in the world.

More than he already has, at least.

"So…."

Eric's voice snaps Steve out of his head, and he turns to see him standing over by the work bench. He's holding something in his hand, something small, and Steve realizes with his heart in his throat that the top drawer is open.

"I guess it's safe to say you two aren't _actually_ married yet, huh?" he continues.

Steve swallows thickly. "Listen, Eric—"

"Chill, man." And that's the first time it really occurs to Steve that Eric's smiling instead of, he doesn't know, freaking out or something. Because he has to admit, that kind of seems like the more likely response to this situation. "Uncle Danny told me everything in the car."

"Oh." That's pretty much all he can come up with at the moment, and he doesn't really think anyone can blame him. Leave it to Danny to throw a curveball like that when he's least expecting it. "That's…that's good." He thinks so, anyway. The distinct lack of the aforementioned freaking-outing seems like a good sign that Eric's taking this well, which is really all he can ask for.

Although, he has to admit, he _really_ would've liked it if Eric hadn't opened that drawer. Hadn't found that box.

"This is nice, though," Eric says. His eyes are fixed on the blue felt box sitting open in his hand, and Steve can picture all too clearly in his head the silver band nestled in the black lining of the box. It's nothing ornate. There's no jewel, no fancy metalwork. It's just a band. He thought anything more would cheapen the gesture. And besides, that one just seemed…right. "When're you going to give it to him?"

And there's the kicker.

Steve sighs.

Eric takes a second, but then it seems to hit him, and he looks up. "You _are_ gonna give it to him, right?"

It's amazing, Steve thinks. He only just found out they were in a relationship five minutes ago and he's already grilling him about his marriage proposal plans.

He can't help bristling a little, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. "Danny's not exactly big on the idea of marriage."

"What makes you say that?"

"Almost two years riding around with him," Steve replies. "Have you _heard_ the ringtones?" Because he has, and he doesn't think someone would put _Psycho_ theme music to an ex-wife's contact in his phone if he wasn't just a little bit bitter.

Eric doesn't back down, though. Of course he doesn't. It must run in the family. "Okay, so he's not exactly marriage's biggest fan. But that doesn't mean he won't do it."

That might be the worst argument Steve's ever heard. After all, he's not paperwork's biggest fan, but that doesn't mean he won't do it. Doesn't mean he likes it, either, though, and he doesn't want this out of obligation. He wants Danny to be his because he wants to be, not because _Steve_ wants him to be. That's not how he thinks this should work.

And for the record, part of him hates Rachel for fucking this up for him. But then, he also realizes that, if she had appreciated what she had when she had it, he wouldn't have it now. That thought alone is enough to make his stomach turn.

"Listen, bro," Eric says after a while, "all I'm saying is that you won't know if you don't ask."

"Thanks for the pep talk, but it's not that simple."

"And here I thought Uncle Danny always bitched you out for leaping before you look. I didn't think you'd be the type to play it safe."

Steve takes a second to be completely unsurprised that Danny would share that little factoid with his nephew. He thinks it might be one of Danny's favorite rants, right up there with his hatred for the island and his personal crusade against pineapples.

Eventually, he just nods. Not because he's buying what Eric's selling – he wants to, but he's filed this particular mission under 'proceed with caution' – but because he doesn't see himself winning this discussion anytime soon, and Danny's still waiting out in the car.

"I'll figure it out."

Eric doesn't look convinced. He nods, and damnit, tell him nods can't be hereditary, because _that_ right there is a Danny nod. "Uh huh. You do that." He starts towards Steve, and as he passes him, he puts the now-closed box in his hand. At the door, he stops, and he turns. "Not for nothing," he says, "but I think your odds might be better than you think."

And with that, he leaves, and Steve is left standing in his garage with his thoughts, his car, and a little blue felt box.


	7. Hana I Wa'Ia (Scandal)

Danny's starting to come down off the adrenaline from that phone call, and he lets out a heavy huff as he sinks down into the chair in Steve's yard. It's not that he's tired so much as just…content, and given the last couple of days he's had, he's enjoying the change.

The governor just left – Danny notices he didn't take his beer with him, and that's just fine – and he takes his seat back, watching the waves roll in and waiting for Steve to get back from showing the governor out.

He kind of wonders how much of that is good manners, and how much of it is Steve making sure he's good and gone.

Whatever the reason, he doesn't have to wait long. Steve comes back out a few seconds later, and he's got what looks like a fresh beer, even though there's still three in the pack by Danny's feet.

Instead of coming to sit down, though, he walks right past the other chair and heads out to the beach, and Danny's really not sure what to do with that. It would be one thing if Steve hadn't been giving him the silent treatment before, but now he's kind of wondering if Steve's starting to come down off a high of his own. It was damn near amazing how quick his mood changed before when he told him that Grace was staying in Hawaii; he lit up like Christmas tree, like he forgot all about his bad mood.

Judging by the hard set of his shoulders against the setting sun – and Jesus, what a picture that is – and the stance he's taken with his feet shoulders-width apart and his arms crossed, Danny thinks he might have remembered. He doesn't even need to see it to know Steve's got his constipated face on.

He sighs. His good mood's starting to slip, which sucks, because he was kind of hoping to ride this high quite a while longer. He was kind of hoping Steve would, too.

Instead, he's standing there doing that 'staring into the ocean' thing that he usually reserves for post-nightmare insomnia and anything of or relating to the emotional clusterfuck that is his family.

The thought that it has something to do with him this time is actually painful.

That settles it, he thinks. He just found out he's getting to keep his daughter, and he'll be damned if he's just gonna sit here and mope.

He pushes himself up from his chair, leaving his beer on the table, and he walks towards the beach. Experience keeps him from walking all the way up to Steve – he still remembers the time he made the mistake of catching him off guard, and had ended up with a mouthful of sand and an unending earful of apologies for his trouble – so he stops about a yard back and crosses his arms.

"You're still mad at me, huh?"

Steve doesn't look at him. "I'm not mad at you." His voice is measured and even. Danny knows that voice, and it sure as hell isn't his happy one.

"Really? Then why do you have your constipated face?"

"You can't even see my face."

"I don't need to," Danny says. He knows him too well. He knows the set of his shoulders, the in and out of his breathing that's just a little too controlled. "I know something's wrong, babe. So would you just tell me what it is, so I can apologize and we can get on with our evening?" He knows he's being crass, but sometimes, he thinks that's the only way to get through to Steve.

But then Steve turns on him, and he thinks that maybe this wasn't one of those times after all, because that look in his eyes…it's…it's intense. Really intense. Danny can see the muscle of his jaw standing out beneath the shadow of the scruff on his cheek, and his nose is flaring, and Danny wonders if maybe he hasn't just made a mistake.

"I'm not mad, Danny," he says almost feverishly. He grabs Danny's shoulders, and Danny's not sure if that's because he's trying to make a point, or if he's trying to ground himself. He's got a sort of manic look in his eyes, and they're boring into Danny's, and damned if Danny doesn't feel his hair stand on end a little. "How can I be?"

Danny's not sure if that's a trick question, but he answers anyway. "I did tell you to let Wo Fat go. I made you choose the congressman over taking out the guy that killed your dad." When he says it out loud, he kind of wonders why Steve isn't screaming at him.

Actually, Steve's looking at him like he's crazy. His brows are furrowed, and he pulls his head back a little bit, like he can't decide if he wants to be affronted or confused. "Made me choose the—?" His eyes set determinedly. "You didn't make me do anything, Danny. And anyway, it wasn't even about the congressman. I didn't _choose_ him."

Danny watches him take a breath, watches a little bit of the tension – not even close to all of it – leave his shoulders. His bright eyes are a little less crazy-looking and a little more…something else that makes his chest swell and his face warm.

"I chose _you_," he says. "I'll catch Wo Fat; I have to. But not if it means putting you in danger. Not if it means disappointing you."

"I'm not disappointed in you, babe," Danny tells him sharply. That Steve would even think that…Jesus, how would he even go about being disappointed in Steve, after all the amazing things he's done?

"But you would've been. If I'd chased after Wo Fat instead of getting the congressman help, then you would've been disappointed." There's no doubt in his voice, and Danny has to admit that he's probably not wrong.

Danny's not really sure how he feels about that. On the one hand, he feels guilty that Steve gave up a chance to resolve years of conflict for Danny's sake, but on the other…knowing that Steve cares that much, it's enough to make breathing a little hard.

"So, what's this about, then? All the sulking?"

Steve makes a face that's dangerously close to a pout. "I'm not sulking," he retorts. "I'm thinking."

"What are you thinking about, then?"

Steve's brows furrow even deeper, and he drops his gaze for a second.

"Steve?" Danny presses.

Instead of replying, though, Steve lets his hands drop down from Danny's shoulders, and he turns towards the water. He starts towards the beach, one hand running through his hair agitatedly while the other dips into his pocket. He takes a few steps, stops, freezes for a second, and just when Danny's about to say something, he seems to come to a decision, because he turns around and marches right up to Danny.

For a second, Danny's confused.

And then Steve drops down on one knee.

Suddenly, Danny's heart can't seem to decide if it wants to leap into his throat or plummet to the soles of his shoes, so it ends up just ricocheting around his chest. He wants to say something, but he doesn't really trust his voice.

Steve's talking, anyway, so Danny does his best to hone in on it. Frankly, he's amazed he can hear him over the thundering of his pulse in his ears.

"I'm an idiot," Steve's saying. "I take stupid risks all the time, I make everything personal—"

"Steve—"

But Steve isn't stopping for anything. "Hell, I've probably killed more people than you've met. I have enough issues to put a shrink's great grandchildren through college, and frankly, I'm amazed every time you let me in the same room as your daughter."

That one's news to Danny. It's never even occurred to him to think Steve would put Grace in danger, and the thought of it now would be laughable if it weren't for the look on Steve's face. He's dead serious. He _really_ means that.

So, it's really more heartbreaking than anything.

"But I want you to know that I'd never hurt her. I'd die first." The scary thing is, Danny knows he would. Without a second thought, he knows it. "And the same goes for you. I never want to hurt you, Danny, and I never want to see you get hurt. I love you. Both of you. And this morning, when you said what you'd do if they took Grace away from you…all of it, it scared the hell out of me, because the thought of losing you…" Steve's jaw tightens, and there's this haunted look in his eyes as he says it that tells Danny everything Steve can't seem to say.

He wants to tell Steve that he didn't mean it, that he's sorry for saying in the first place, but he can't. Partly because he's not sure _what_ he would've done, but mostly because he can't bring himself to break whatever momentum Steve's built up.

When Steve speaks again, his voice is rough, and Danny feels his own throat tighten. "In the courtroom, though, you said…you said that Hawaii is your home, now. And I think—I mean, I _want_…I want that home to be with me."

Danny's painfully aware that he needs to say something, but he can't seem to do much more than blink and stare. Steve's face is distracting, he decides. His eyes are too blue and watery; his face is too flushed and tense. He doesn't know that he's ever seen Steve looking like this when lives weren't on the line. Maybe not even then.

"Would you stand up?" The words tumble out without Danny's permission, but he goes with them. "Please, would you stand up?"

He knows those aren't the words Steve was wanting or expecting to hear, but he stands up nonetheless. "Not good?" he asks, and it's hard to tell if the wince is more for what's already been said, or what he's waiting to hear. "It's just—I realized today what it would be like to lose you." He seems to realize something, then, because he adds quickly, "That's not the only reason. It's not—it's not some post-traumatic life affirmation thing or anything like that."

Danny doesn't think he's ever going to live that down.

He frowns. "Steve."

Steve's on a roll, though. "I mean, I've had the ring for months. I just never asked because I thought—"

"_Steve_," he tries again, more forcefully.

Nothing doing. "—you know, after Rachel, you weren't too big on the whole marriage…thing. But I'm not like her, Danny. I know who you are and what you do, and I would never—"

"Yes!"

That does the trick. Steve couldn't look more surprised if someone slapped him, and his brows furrow over wide eyes.

Danny takes a deep breath. "Finally."

"Finally?" Steve actually looks a little bit offended, cocking his head just so and—oh, there's constipated face, making a comeback.

"Of course," Danny says, rolling his eyes. "You hear _that_."

"I heard the other thing," Steve protests. Danny gives him a second, and then, sure enough, he sees it start to sink in. "You said…_yes_." He sounds tentative, thoughtful. A little bit skeptical.

"Yes. Yes I did."

And there it is. It's like a light bulb clicks on in his skull; his whole face lights up with it. "You said yes!"

Danny thinks that if he grins any wider, he will actually break something. But then Steve arms wrap around him and crushes their lips together, and Danny stops thinking. It's overrated, anyway.

It isn't until they're both starved for air and Danny thinks he might have Steve-arm-shaped imprints on his sides – he's definitely not complaining, by the way – that they part, and Danny can barely manage to string words together in his head.

Somehow, though, his mouth is miles ahead of him.

"You mentioned something about a ring?" he says.

Steve jerks back like he's just stuck his finger in a power outlet, and it's all Danny can do not to laugh, because he can't seem to get his hand in his pants fast enough. And Danny thinks it's only fair, because he has to feel like that _all_ the time. It's about time Steve got a taste of his own medicine.

But then Steve's taking his hand, and Danny barely has a chance to react before he's sliding something over Danny's ring finger.

Somehow, Danny's not at all surprised that it fits. Steve probably did some recon beforehand. It's really hard to be bitter, though, when he sees it: a simple silver band, light against the tan of his skin. Steve's still holding his hand as he looks, and it's hard to tell if it's his hand that's shaking, or Danny's. Maybe both.

Probably both.

Soft laughter bubbles in his throat. "I'm sorry," he says after a second. "I didn't get you anything.

Steve looks at him like he's lost his marbles for a second, before a smile cracks his face in half and he swoops in for another kiss.

Behind them, the sun's going down, reflecting splashes of bright reds and oranges and yellows across the bright blue of the ocean. It's beautiful, Danny knows, if you're into that sort of thing. But right now, he doesn't really give a damn about anything but the guy he's hoping to spend the rest of his life with.

And as the sun dips below the horizon, Danny can't help thinking that maybe Smooth Dog wasn't ironic after all.


End file.
